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STORIES OF THE HUDSON 




^' Sunnysidc" — Irving's home near Tarryiown 



Stories of the Hudson 

by 

Washington Irving 

With Illustrations 
by Clifton Johnson 




New York 

Dodge Publishing Company 

214-220 East 23 d Street 



3"° 



51- 



Copyright 1912 by 
Dodge Publishing Compant 



gC!.A31487I 



» Contents 



PAGE 



Introduction vii 

Communipaw I 

Guests from Gibbet Island 7 

Wolfert's Roost 24 

Peter Stuyves ant's Voyage up the Hudson . 47 

The Chronicle of Beam Island 56 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (^^ 

Dolph Heyliger iii 

Rip Van Winkle 193 

Golden Dreams 219 



Illustrations 

**Sunnyside" — Irving's home near Tarry town 



Frontispiece 



v^ 



PAGE 



Looking across to New York from Communipaw 12 v^ 

Spiting Devil, the creek at the north end of Man- 
hattan Island 191/ 

The rocky heights of Jersey 29 i^ 

Anthony's Nose 33 w^ 

Beam Island 37*^ 

In Sleepy Hollow Churchyard 45 k 

The Tappan Sea 61^ 

The bridge at Sleepy Hollow 71^ 

Storm King at the northern gateway to the 

Highlands 103/ 

The present Battery 116^ 

PoUopol's Island 1241^ 

Albany 133^ 

TheCatskills 142^ 

At the end of the day 147 v/ 

Looking down on the eastern valley from a 

height of the Catskills 151^/ 

Becalmed i8i»^ 



Introduction 



npHIS collection of stories is identical with a volume 
■*- that Irving himself published in the year 1849, 
except that the tale of Wolfert's Roost has been added. 
In his foreword he attributes the stories to "the late 
Diedrich Knickerbocker," and goes on to say: "That 
worthy and truthful historian was one of my earliest 
and most revered friends, and I owe many of the 
pleasant associations in my mind with this river to 
information derived in my youth from that venerable 
sage. It has recently occurred to me that it would be 
an acceptable homage to his venerated shade, to collect 
in one volume all that he has written concerning the 
river which he loved so well. It occurred to me also 
that such a volume might form an agreeable and in- 
structive handbook to all intelligent and inquiring 
travellers about to explore the wonders and beauties 
of the Hudson. To all such I heartily recommend it, 
with my best wishes for a pleasant voyage, whether 
by steamboat or railroad." 

It has been affirmed by that notable New England 
nature writer, Thoreau, that the property a man 
owns is not simply what he pays taxes on, but all 
which he looks on with enjoyment of its fair aspect. 



X Introduction 

In this sense Irving owned nearly all of the Hudson 
Valley from New York to Albany. Rarely is the name 
and fame of an author so closely associated with a 
particular region as is Washington Irving's with the 
Hudson River. He was born on its banks in New York 
City, and though he spent much of his middle life in 
Europe, he later became a permanent dweller near 
Tarrytown, almost within a stone's throw of the 
stream in a home of his own which he called "Sunny- 
side." In one of his magazine contributions he says: 

"I fancy I can trace much of what is good and 
pleasant in my own heterogeneous compound to my 
early companionship with this glorious river. The 
Hudson is, in a manner, my first and last love, and 
after all my wanderings I return to it with a heart- 
felt preference over all other rivers in the world. I 
seem to catch new life as I bathe in its ample billows 
and inhale the pure breezes of its hills." 

Irving was the literary discoverer of the river, and 
to a very large degree we have him to thank for the 
peculiar sentiment and romance that are associated 
with it. Until his time the wonderful beauty of the 
stream was uncelebrated, and its fascinating history 
and legends unrecorded. His pen popularized the 
charm of the river that he loved and glorified, and 
whether he was writing fiction or simply interpreting 
facts, in either case his lively imagination and gentle 
humor imparted an atmosphere that will always color 
the public impression of the region. Some portions of 
the valley appealed to him because of their connection 
with his own life, others on account of their scenic 



Introduction xi 

attraction, and still others by reason of some peculiarity 
of their history. The Dutch characteristics always 
amused him, and a Dutch village or even a farmhouse, 
was an incentive to delicious burlesque. Perhaps he 
might have found the Yankee, or French, or some 
other race equally inspiring to humor, but it chanced 
that the Dutch were in the early days dominant in 
his home valley. 

The Dutch farms and communities are now prac- 
tically extinct. They have been overrun, crowded 
out, or superseded by the inflow of other life. Natu- 
rally the greatest change has been in and about Man- 
hattan Island. Irving was born in 1783 in the lower 
part of the present city, in a house on William Street 
between Fulton and John Streets. At that time the 
place contained less than twenty-five thousand in- 
habitants, and with its quaint, dormer-windowed 
dwellings, its straggling lanes and roads, and the 
water pumps in the middle of the road, its appearance 
was distinctly rural. Most of the buildings were 
clustered about the Battery, and the Irvlngs lived on 
the northern outskirts. Beyond were only country 
residences, orchards, and cornfields. 

Although in his stories Irving often harks back to a 
much earlier period, there was still opportunity for 
him in his youth to get ample suggestions in life and 
nature about him for the rustic customs and the mys- 
tery of forest and lonely shores he liked to portray. 
Nor was his youthful knowledge of the river confined 
to the vicinity of Manhattan, for he was only a lad 
when his acquaintance began with that broad, lake- 



XII Introduction 

like stretch of the river known as the Tappan Sea, 
beside which in later life he was destined to dwell. 
He had relatives in Tarrytown whom he sometimes 
visited, and he and a boy of the family rambled with 
guns or rods over the hills, or rowed their boat along 
the river shores. Trout abounded in the tributary 
streams, quail piped in every cornfield, and there were 
partridges which whirred from every invaded thicket. 
He attended the little church at Sleepy Hollow; he 
heard the Revolutionary veterans fight their battles 
over at the tavern and the store; and he saw the 
market boat that sailed at stated intervals to New 
York, wind and weather permitting, tie up near his 
relatives' home, and the farm wagons lumber down to 
the landing with their produce. 

When he returned in 1835 from a long sojourn 
abroad he bought "Sunnyside" with the desire to 
have rural quiet, and to indulge in the pleasures of a 
real home of his own. The place was merely a ten- 
acre farm on which stood a small stone house erected 
by a former Dutch resident. Irving's original inten- 
tion was that the place should be nothing more than a 
summer retreat, inexpensive and simply furnished; 
but he did much more than he at first had in mind 
doing, and it became his permanent dwelling. Yet 
whatever changes were made, its quaint Dutch in- 
dividuality was carefully preserved, and, as the author 
observed, it continued to be "as full of angles and 
corners as an old cocked hat." He made it one of the 
snuggest and most picturesque residences on the river. 
With its sheltering groves and secluded walks and 



Introduction xiii 

grassy glades and Its wide-reaching view of the river 
it was an Ideal home for such a man of letters as Irving. 
In a short time it had become the dearest spot on 
earth to him, and he always left it with reluctance, and 
returned to it with eager delight. 

Since Irving's time the house has been greatly en- 
larged, but the most characteristic portion of the old 
residence has been retained, and is in front, so that 
"Sunnyside" continues to present the same general 
aspect. The cosiness and retirement of the house are 
delightful. It is like a human bird's nest. The grounds 
are ample, with many old and lofty trees, and Include 
a brook that courses down a rocky hollow and then 
lingers through the lush weeds and grasses of a little 
meadow. Between the plateau on which the house 
stands and the river, the railroad intervenes, but is 
for the most part screened from sight by a thick growth 
of trees. 

"Sunnyside" was within the boundaries of Tarry- 
town until the author's very last years. Then a new 
town in which It was Included was set oif from the 
older community, and named Irvlngton in his honor. 

Sleepy Hollow, where Ichabod Crane taught school 
and encountered the headless horseman, is a short 
distance on the other side of Tarrytown. It used to 
be thoroughly rustic. Now, however. It is suburban, 
the placid old Dutch homesteads have disappeared, 
and the bridge where the schoolmaster came to grief 
when pursued by the headless horseman, is no longer 
a rude wooden structure in a deep ravine overhung 
by trees and vines, but is a substantial arch of stone, 



XIV Introduction 

across which runs a broad exposed highway. The 
most satisfying relic of the past is the little Dutch 
church on a knoll above the bridge, one of the quaintest 
and best preserved historic buildings on this continent. 
It is surrounded by the graves of many generations — 
those of the early settlers clustering thickly about the 
edifice, while the newer graves overspread the long 
slope rising beyond. Near the summit of the hill is 
Irving's grave, and a well-trodden path leads from the 
church to where he rests amid the scenes which his 
magic pen has made famous. 

Not far to the north the Highlands begin at Peek- 
skill, and thence for twenty miles to Cornwall the river 
plays hide and seek with the ancient rock-ribbed hills. 
The river scenery is here at its finest, and often attains 
to real sublimity. Irving speaks of his first sail through 
the Highlands, which occurred in 1800, as "a time of 
intense delight. I sat on the deck," he says, "and 
gazed with wonder and admiration at the cliffs im- 
pending far above me, crowned with forests, with 
eagles sailing and screaming around them; or beheld 
rock and tree and sky reflected in the glassy stream. 
And then how solemn and thrilling the scene as we 
anchored at night at the foot of these mountains, and 
everything grew dark and mysterious; and I heard the 
plaintive note of the whip-poor-will, or was startled 
now and then by the sudden leap and heavy splash of 
the sturgeon." 

Soon after the Highlands are left behind, the voyager 
on the river begins to get glimpses of the Catskills, 



Introduction xv 

those delectable heights which were the scene of "Rip 
Van Winkle," Irving's most famous bit of romance. 
It seems reasonably certain that when he wrote he had 
in mind the region neighboring that charming wilder- 
ness valley, Kaaterskill Clove, and I suppose Rip 
slept somewhere near the crest of the precipitous South 
Mountain. An old road makes a zigzag ascent to a 
summit hotel, and half way up is a little hut which the 
public know as the Rip Van Winkle house. It is 
snugged into a wild hollow with wooded cliffs rising 
around on three sides, and a deep gorge dropping away 
on the fourth side. The hut has been there for at least 
fifty years, and no one seems to have any definite 
knowledge about its origin. Close to it is a ruinous 
hotel, and both are a good deal marked and scribbled 
with names of idling sightseers. A rude path leads 
up the declivity to the left, and a short scramble brings 
one to a great boulder inscribed "Rip's Rock" — the 
supposed place where Rip had his long sleep. 

"Yes," said one of the local dwellers whom I ques- 
tioned, "that little house was where Rip lived, and the 
rock was where he slept. Him and his dog Snider 
went up to that rock, and he tied the dog to a sapling 
and lay down for a nap. When he woke up he looked 
for his dog Snider, and he couldn't see anything of 
him; and he called to him but got no answer. After 
a while he happened to cast his eyes up in a tree and 
saw his dog's bones hanging there. The sapling had 
grown to be a big tree in twenty years, and as it had 
increased in height had carried the dog up into the air." 



XVI Introduction 

This incident is not found in living's pages, and 
doubtless some more recent genius with a Munchausen 
turn of mind has developed what he thinks is an im- 
provement on the original. 

Probably just as great a liberty is taken with Irving's 
work when we attempt to make his scene of action fit 
a particular spot. He truthfully conveys the sentiment 
of the region, but the details are elusive. As it is with 
the setting of Rip Van Winkle, so it is with that of the 
other Irving stories. One seldom finds all that the 
author depicts. Yet in spite of this indefiniteness, and 
in spite of all the changes wrought by the lapse of 
years, the valley still has in a general way the aspect 
that to Irving was so inspiring — and surely no one 
travelling through the region can afford not to be 
acquainted with these inimitable stories and descrip- 
tions. 

Clifton Johnson 

Hadley, Mass. 



Stories of the Hudson 



COMMUNIPAW 

TT used to be a favorite assertion of the venerable 
-*■ Diedrich Knickerbocker, that there was no region 
more rich in themes for the writer of historic novels, 
heroic melodramas, and roughshod epics, than the 
ancient province of the New Netherlands, and its quon- 
dam capital, at the Manhattoes. "We live," he used 
to say, "in the midst of history, mystery, and romance; 
he who would find these elements, however, must not 
seek them among the modern improvements and 
monied people of the monied metropolis; he must dig 
for them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out of 
the way places, and among the ruins of the past." 
Never did sage speak more truly. Poetry and romance 
received a fatal blow at the overthrow of the ancient 
Dutch dynasty, and have ever since been gradually 
withering under the growing domination of the Yan- 
kees. They abandoned our hearths when the old Dutch 
tiles were superseded by marble chimney pieces; when 
brass andirons made way for polished grates, and the 
crackling and blazing fire of nut wood gave place to 



2 Stories of the Hudson 

the smoke and stench of Liverpool coal; and on the 
downfall of the last crow-step gables, their requiem 
was tolled from the tower of the Dutch church in 
Nassau street, by the old bell that came from Holland. 
But poetry and romance still lurk unseen among us, 
or seen only by the enlightened few who are able to 
contemplate the commonplace scenes and objects of 
the metropolis, through the medium of tradition, and 
clothed with the associations of foregone ages. 

He who would seek these elements in the country, 
must avoid all turnpikes, railroads, steamboats, and 
other abominable inventions, by which the usurping 
Yankees are strengthening themselves in the land, and 
subduing everything to utility and commonplace. 
He must avoid all towns and cities of white clapboard 
palaces, and Grecian temples, studded with "acade- 
mies," "seminaries," and "institutes," which glisten 
along our bays and rivers; these are the strongholds of 
Yankee usurpation; but should he haply light upon 
some rough, rambling road, winding between stone 
fences, grey with moss, and overgrown with elder, poke 
berry, mullein, and sweet brier, and here and there a 
low, red-roofed, whitewashed farmhouse, cowering 
among apple and cherry trees; an old stone church, 
with elms, willows, and buttonwood, as old looking 
as itself, and tombstones almost buried In their own 
graves, and peradventure a small log-built school- 
house, at a crossroad, where the English language is 
still taught, with a thickness of the tongue instead of 
a twang of the nose, he may thank his stars that he 



Communipaw 3 

has found one of the lingering haunts of poetry and 
romance. 

Among these favored places, the renowned village 
of Communipaw was ever held by the historian of 
New Amsterdam in especial veneration. Here the 
intrepid crew of the Goede Vrouw first cast the seeds 
of empire. Hence proceeded the expedition under 
Oloffe the Dreamer to found the city of New Amster- 
dam, vulgarly called New York, which, inheriting the 
genius of its founder, has ever been a city of dreams 
and speculations. Communipaw, therefore, may truly 
be called the parent of New York, though, on comparing 
the lowly village with the great flaunting city which 
it has engendered, one is forcibly reminded of a squat 
little hen that has unwittingly hatched out a long- 
legged turkey. 

It is a mirror also of New Amsterdam, as it was 
before the conquest. Everything bears the stamp of 
the days of Oloffe the Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, 
and the other worthies of the golden age; the same 
gable-fronted houses, surmounted with weathercocks, 
the same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles, and close 
quilled caps, and linsey-woolsey petticoats, and multi- 
farious breeches. In a word, Communipaw is a little 
Dutch Herculaneum or Pompeii, where the reliques of 
the classic days of the New Netherlands are preserved 
in their pristine state, with the exception that they 
have never been buried. 

The secret of all this wonderful conservation is 
simple. At the time that New Amsterdam was sub- 



4 Stories of the Hudson 

jugated by the Yankees and their British alHes, as 
Spain was, in ancient days, by the Saracens, a great 
dispersion took place among the inhabitants. One 
resolute band determined never to bend their necks 
to the yoke of the invaders, and, led by Garret Van 
Home, a gigantic Dutchman, the Pelaye of the New 
Netherlands, crossed the bay, and buried themselves 
among the marshes of Communipaw, as did the Span- 
iards of yore among the Asturian mountains. Here 
they cut off all communication with the captured city, 
forbade the English language to be spoken in their 
community, kept themselves free from foreign marriage 
and intermixture, and have thus remained the pure 
Dutch seed of the Manhattoes, with which the city 
may be repeopled, whenever it is effectually delivered 
from the Yankees. 

The citadel erected by Garret Van Home exists to 
this day in possession of his descendants, and is known 
by the lordly appellation of the House of the Four 
Chimneys, from having a chimney perched like a 
turret at every corner. Here are to be seen articles 
of furniture which came over with the first settlers 
from Holland; ancient chests of drawers, and massive 
clothes presses, quaintly carved, and waxed and pol- 
ished until they shine like mirrors. Here are old black 
letter volumes with brass clasps, printed of yore in 
Leyden, and handed down from generation to genera- 
tion, but never read. Also old parchment deeds in 
Dutch and English, bearing the seals of the early 
governors of the province. 



Communipaw 5 

In this house the primitive Dutch Holy Days of 
Paas and Pinxter, are faithfully kept up, and New 
Year celebrated with cookies and cherry bounce; nor 
is the festival of the good St. Nicholas forgotten; when 
all the children are sure to hang up their stockings, 
and to have them filled according to their deserts; 
though it is said the good Saint is occasionally per- 
plexed in his nocturnal visits, which chimney to de- 
scend. A tradition exists concerning this mansion, 
which, however dubious it may seem, is treasured up 
with good faith by the inhabitants. It is said that at 
the founding of it St. Nicholas took it under his pro- 
tection, and the Dutch Dominie of the place, who 
was a kind of soothsayer, predicted that as long as 
these four chimneys stood Communipaw would flourish. 
Now it came to pass that some years since, during the 
great mania for land speculation, a Yankee speculator 
found his way into Communipaw; bewildered the old 
burghers with a project to erect their village into a 
great seaport; made a lithographic map, in which 
their oyster beds were transformed into docks and 
quays, their cabbage gardens laid out in town lots and 
squares, and the House of the Four Chimneys meta- 
morphosed into a great bank, with granite pillars, 
which was to enrich the whole neighborhood with 
paper money. 

Fortunately at this juncture there arose a high wind, 
which shook the venerable pile to its foundation, 
toppled down one of the chimneys, and blew ofF a 
weathercock, the lord knows whither. The community 



6 Stories of the Hudson 

took the alarm, they drove the land speculator from 
their shores, and since that day not a Yankee has dared 
to show his face in Communipaw. 

The following legend concerning this venerable 
place was found among the papers of the authentic 
Diedrich. 



GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND 

TTZHOEVER has visited the ancient and renowned 
" ' village of Communipaw, may have noticed an old 
stone building, of most ruinous and sinister appearance. 
The doors and window shutters are ready to drop from 
their hinges; old clothes are stuffed in the broken 
panes of glass, while legions of half-starved dogs prowl 
about the premises, and rush out and bark at every 
passer by; for your beggarly house in a village is most 
apt to swarm with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. 
What adds to the sinister appearance of this mansion, 
is a tall frame in front, not a little resembling a gal- 
lows, and which looks as if waiting to accommodate 
some of the inhabitants with a well-merited airing. 
It is not a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post; 
for this dwelling, in the golden days of Communipaw, 
was one of the most orderly and peaceful of village 
taverns, where all the public affairs of Communipaw 
were talked and smoked over. In fact, it was in this 
very building that Oloffe the Dreamer, and his com- 
panions, concerted that great voyage of discovery and 
colonization, in which they explored Buttermilk Chan- 
nel, were nearly shipwrecked in the strait of Hell 
Gate, and finally landed on the Island of Manhattan, 
and founded the great city of New Amsterdam. 



8 Stories of the Hudson 

Even after the province had been cruelly wrested 
from the sway of their High Mightinesses, by the 
combined forces of the British and the Yankees, this 
tavern continued its ancient loyalty. It is true, the 
head of the Prince of Orange disappeared from the sign; 
a strange bird being painted over it, with the explanatory 
legend of "Die Wilde Gans," or The Wild Goose; 
but this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the 
landlord, the worthy Teunis Van Gieson, a knowing 
man in a small way, who laid his finger beside his nose 
and winked, when any one studied the signification 
of his sign, and observed that his goose was hatching, 
but would join the flock whenever they flew over the 
water; an enigma which was the perpetual recreation 
and delight of the loyal but fat-headed burghers of 
Communipaw. 

Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and 
quiet publican, the tavern continued to flourish in 
primeval tranquillity, and was the resort of all true- 
hearted Nederlanders, from all parts of Pavonia; who 
met here quietly and secretly, to smoke and drink the 
downfall of Briton and Yankee, and success to Admiral 
Von Tromp. 

The only drawback on the comfort of the establish- 
ment, was a nephew of mine host, a sister's son, Yan 
Yost Vanderscamp by name, and a real scamp by 
nature. It is an old Spanish proverb, worthy of all 
acceptation, that "where God denies sons the devil 
sends nephews," and such was the case in the present 
instance. This unlucky whipster showed an early 
propensity to mischief, which he gratified in a small 



Guests from Gibbet Island 9 

way, by playing tricks upon the frequenters of the 
Wild Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes or squibs 
in their pockets, and astonishing them with an explo- 
sion, while they sat nodding round the fireplace in 
the barroom ; and if perchance a worthy burgher 
from some distant part of Pavonia lingered until dark 
over his potation, it was odds but that young Vander- 
scamp would slip a brier under his horse's tail, as he 
mounted, and send him clattering along the road, in 
neck-or-nothing style, to his infinite astonishment and 
discomfiture. 

It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild 
Goose did not turn such a graceless varlet out of doors; 
but Teunis Van Gieson was an easy-tempered man, and, 
having no child of his own, looked upon his nephew 
with almost parental indulgence. His patience and 
good nature were doomed to be tried by another in- 
mate of his mansion. This was a cross-grained cur- 
mudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, who was a kind of 
enigma in Communipaw. Where he came from, 
nobody knew. He was found one morning after a 
storm, cast like a sea-monster on the strand, in front 
of the Wild Goose, and lay there, more dead than alive. 
The neighbors gathered round, and speculated on 
this production of the deep; whether it were fish or 
flesh, or a compound of both, commonly yclept a mer- 
man. The kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing 
that he wore the human form, took him into his house, 
and warmed him into life. By degrees, he showed 
signs of intelligence, and even uttered sounds very 
much like language, but which no one in Communipaw 



lo Stories of the Hudson 

could understand. Some thought him a negro just 
from Guinea, who had either fallen overboard, or es- 
caped from a slave-ship. Nothing, however, could 
ever draw from him any account of his origin. When 
questioned on the subject, he merely pointed to Gibbet 
Island, a small rocky islet, which lies in the open bay 
just opposite to Communipaw, as if that were his 
native place, though everybody knew it had never been 
inhabited. 

In the process of time, he acquired something of the 
Dutch language, that is to say, he learnt all its vocabu- 
lary of oaths and maledictions, with just words suffi- 
cient to string them together. "Bonder en blicksem!" 
(thunder and lightning) was the gentlest of his ejacu- 
lations. For years he kept about the Wild Goose, more 
like one of those familiar spirits, or household goblins, 
that we read of, than like a human being. He acknowl- 
edged allegiance to no one, but performed various 
domestic offices, when it suited his humor; waiting 
occasionally on the guests; grooming the horses, 
cutting wood, drawing water; and all this without 
being ordered. Lay any command on him, and the 
stubborn sea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was never 
so much at home, however, as when on the water, 
plying about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone, fishing, 
crabbing, or grabbing for oysters, and would bring 
home quantities for the larder of the Wild Goose, 
which he would throw down at the kitchen door with 
a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him from 
launching forth on his favorite element: indeed, the 
wilder the weather, the more he seemed to enjoy it. 



Guests from Gibbet Island 1 1 

If a storm was brewing, he was sure to put off from 
shore; and would be seen far out in the bay, his light 
skiff dancing like a feather on the waves, when sea and 
sky were all in a turmoil, and the stoutest ships were 
fain to lower their sails. Sometimes, on such occasions, 
he would be absent for days together. How he weath- 
ered the tempests, and how and where he subsisted, no 
one could divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for 
all had an almost superstitious awe of him. Some of 
the Communipaw oystermen declared that they had 
more than once seen him suddenly disappear, canoe 
and all, as if they plunged beneath the waves, and 
after a while come up again, in quite a different part 
of the bay; whence they concluded that he could 
live under water like that notable species of wild duck, 
commonly called the Hell-diver. All began to consider 
him in the light of a foul-weather bird, like the Mother 
Carey's chicken, or stormy petrel; and whenever 
they saw him putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy 
weather, made up their minds for a storm. 

The only being for whom he seemed to have any 
liking, was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and him he liked 
for his very wickedness. He in a manner took the boy 
under his tutelage, prompted him to all kinds of mis- 
chief, aided him in every wild harum-scarum freak, 
until the lad became the complete scape-grace of the 
village; a pest to his uncle, and to every one else. 
Nor were his pranks confined to the land; he soon 
learned to accompany old Pluto on the water. To- 
gether these worthies would cruise about the broad bay 
and all the neighboring straits and rivers; poking 



12 Stories of the Hudson 

around In skiffs and canoes; robbing the set nets of 
the fishermen; landing on remote coasts, and laying 
waste orchards and watermelon patches; in short, 
carrying on a complete system of piracy, on a small 
scale. Piloted by Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp 
soon became acquainted with all the bays, rivers, 
creeks, and Inlets of the watery world around him; 
could navigate from the Hook to Spiting Devil in the 
darkest night, and learned to set even the terrors of 
Hell Gate at defiance. 

At length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, 
and days and weeks elapsed, but without tidings of 
them. Some said they must have run away and gone 
to sea; others jocosely hinted, that old Pluto, being 
no other than a namesake in disguise, had spirited 
away the boy to the nether regions. All, however, 
agreed In one thing, that the village was well rid of 
them. 

In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson 
slept with his fathers, and the tavern remained shut 
up, waiting for a claimant, for the next heir was Yan 
Yost Vanderscamp, and he had not been heard of for 
years. At length, one day, a boat was seen pulling 
for shore, from a long, black, rakish-looking schooner, 
which lay at anchor in the bay. The boat's crew 
seemed worthy of the craft from which they debarked. 
Never had such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering 
varlets landed In peaceful Communipaw. They were 
outlandish In garb and demeanor, and were headed 
by a rough, burly, bully ruffian, with fiery whiskers, 
a copper nose, a scar across his face, and a great Flaund- 




Looking across to New York from Communipazv 



Guests from Gibbet Island 13 

erish beaver slouched on one side of his head, in whom, 
to their dismay, the quiet inhabitants were made to 
recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. 
The rear of this hopeful gang was brought up by old 
Pluto, who had lost an eye, grown grizzly-headed, and 
looked more like the devil than ever. Vanderscamp 
renewed his acquaintance with the old burghers, much 
against their will, and in a manner not at all to their 
taste. He slapped them familiarly on the back, gave 
them an iron grip of the hand, and was hail fellow well 
met. According to his own account, he had been all 
the world over; had made money by the bags full; 
had ships in every sea, and now meant to turn the 
Wild Goose into a countryseat, where he and his 
comrades, all rich merchants from foreign parts, 
might enjoy themselves in the interval of their 
voyages. 

Sure enough, in a little while there was a complete 
metamorphosis of the Wild Goose. From being a 
quiet, peaceful Dutch public house, it became a most 
riotous, uproarious private dwelling; a complete ren- 
dezvous for boisterous men of the seas, who came here 
to have what they call a "blow-out" on dry land, 
and might be seen at all hours lounging about the door, 
or lolling out of the windows; swearing among them- 
selves, and cracking rough jokes on every passer-by. 
The house was fitted up, too. In so strange a manner: 
hammocks slung to the walls, Instead of bedsteads; 
odd kinds of furniture, of foreign fashion; bamboo 
couches, Spanish chairs; pistols, cutlasses, and blun- 
derbusses suspended on every peg; silver crucifixes 



14 Stories of the Hudson 

on the mantelpieces, silver candlesticks and porringers 
on the tables, contrasting oddly with the pewter and 
Delft ware of the original establishment. And then the 
strange amusements of these sea-monsters! Pitching 
Spanish dollars, instead of quoits; firing blunderbusses 
out of the window; shooting at a mark, or at any 
unhappy dog, or cat, or pig, or barn-door fowl, that 
might happen to come within reach. 

The only being who seemed to relish their rough 
waggery, was old Pluto; and yet he led but a dog's 
life of it; for they practised all kinds of manual jokes 
upon him; kicked him about like a football; shook 
him by his grizzly mop of wool, and never spoke 
to him without coupling a curse by way of adjective 
to his name, and consigning him to the infernal 
regions. The old fellow, however, seemed to like 
them the better, the more they cursed him, though 
his utmost expression of pleasure never amounted to 
more than the growl of a petted bear, when his ears 
are rubbed. 

Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of 
the Wild Goose; and such orgies as took place there! 
Such drinking, singing, whooping, swearing; with an 
occasional interlude of quarreling and fighting. The 
noisier grew the revel, the more old Pluto plied the 
potations, until the guests would become frantic in 
their merriment, smashing everything to pieces, and 
throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, 
after a drinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured 
the village, to the dismay of the worthy burghers, who 
gathered their women within doors, and would have 



Guests from Gibbet Island 15 

shut up the house. Vanderscamp, however, was not 
to be rebuffed. He insisted on renewing acquaintance 
with his old neighbors, and on introducing his friends, 
the merchants, to their families; swore he was on the 
lookout for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to 
find husbands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, 
nill-ye, sociable he was; swaggered about their best 
parlors, with his hat on one side of his head; sat on 
the good wife's nicely waxed mahogany table, kicking 
his heels against the carved and polished legs; kissed 
and tousled the young vrouws; and, if they frowned and 
pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or a sparkling cross, 
to put them in good humor again. 

Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must 
have some of his old neighbors to dinner at the Wild 
Goose. There was no refusing him, for he had got the 
complete upper hand of the community, and the 
peaceful burghers all stood in awe of him. But what 
a time would the quiet, worthy men have, among those 
rake-hells, who would delight to astound them with 
the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered 
with all kinds of foreign oaths; clink the can with them; 
pledge them in deep potations; bawl drinking songs 
in their ears; and occasionally fire pistols over their 
heads, or under the table, and then laugh in their 
faces, and ask them how they liked the smell of gun- 
powder. 

Thus was the little village of Communipaw for a 
time like the unfortunate wight possessed with devils; 
until Vanderscamp and his brother merchants would 
sail on another trading voyage, when the Wild Goose 



i6 Stories of the Hudson 

would be shut up, and everything relapse into quiet, 
only to be disturbed by his next visitation. 

The mystery of all these proceedings gradually 
dawned upon the tardy intellects of Communipaw. 
These were the times of the notorious Captain Kidd, 
when the American harbors were the resorts of piratical 
adventurers of all kinds, who, under pretext of mer- 
cantile voyages, scoured the West Indies, made plun- 
dering descents upon the Spanish Main, visited even 
the remote Indian Seas, and then came to dispose of 
their booty, have their revels, and fit out new expedi- 
tions, in the English colonies. 

Vanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and 
having risen to importance among the buccaneers, had 
pitched upon his native village and early home, as a quiet, 
out-of-the-way, unsuspected place, where he and his 
comrades, while anchored at New York, might have their 
feasts, and concert their plans, without molestation. 

At length the attention of the British government 
was called to these piratical enterprises, that were 
becoming so frequent and outrageous. Vigorous 
measures were taken to check and punish them. Sev- 
eral of the most noted freebooters were caught and 
executed, and three of Vanderscamp's chosen com- ". 
rades, the most riotous swashbucklers of the Wild ' 
Goose, were hanged In chains on Gibbet Island, In 
full sight of their favorite resort. As to Vanderscamp 
himself, he and his man Pluto again disappeared, and 
it was hoped b)'' the people of Communipaw that he 
had fallen in some foreign brawl, or been swung on 
some foreign gallows. - 



Guests from Gibbet Island 17 

For a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village 
was restored; the worthy Dutchmen once more smoked 
their pipes in peace, eyeing, with peculiar complacency, 
their old pests and terrors, the pirates, dangling and 
drying In the sun, on Gibbet Island. 

This perfect calm was doomed at length to be 
ruffled. The fiery persecution of the pirates gradually 
subsided. Justice was satisfied with the examples 
that had been made, and there was no more talk of 
KIdd, and the other heroes of like kidney. On a calm 
summer evening, a boat, somewhat heavily laden, 
was seen pulling Into Communipaw. What was the 
surprise and disquiet of the Inhabitants, to see Yan 
Yost Vanderscamp seated at the helm, and his man 
Pluto tugging at the oar. Vanderscamp, however, was 
apparently an altered man. He brought home with 
him a wife, who seemed to be a shrew, and to have 
the upper hand of him. He no longer was the swagger- 
ing, bully rufiian, but aff'ected the regular merchant, 
and talked of retiring from business, and settling 
down quietly, to pass the rest of his days in his native 
place. 

The Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but with 
diminished splendor, and no riot. It is true, Vander- 
scamp had frequent nautical visitors, and the sound of 
revelry was occasionally overheard In his house; but 
everything seemed to be done under the rose; and old 
Pluto was the only servant that oflftclated at these 
orgies. The visitors. Indeed, were by no means of the 
turbulent stamp of their predecessors; but quiet, 
mysterious traders, full of nods, and winks, and hiero- 



1 8 Stories of the Hudson 

glyphic signs, with whom, to use their cant phrase, 
"everything was smug." Their ships came to anchor 
at night, in the lower bay; and, on a private signal, 
Vanderscamp would launch his boat, and, accompanied 
solely by his man Pluto, would make them mysterious 
visits. Sometimes boats pulled in at night, in front 
of the Wild Goose, and various articles of merchandise 
were landed in the dark, and spirited away, nobody 
knew whither. One of the more curious of the inhabit- 
ants kept watch, and caught a glimpse of the features 
of some of these night visitors, by the casual glance 
of a lantern, and declared that he recognised more 
than one of the freebooting frequenters of the Wild 
Goose, in former times; from whence he concluded 
that Vanderscamp was at his old game, and that 
this mysterious merchandise was nothing more nor 
less than piratical plunder. The more charitable opin- 
ion, however, was, that Vanderscamp and his comrades, 
having been driven from their old line of business, by 
the "oppressions of government," had resorted to smug- 
gling to make both ends meet. 

Be that as it may: I come now to the extraordinary 
fact, which is the butt-end of this story. It happened 
late one night, than Yan Yost Vanderscamp was re- 
turning across the broad bay, in his light skiff, rowed 
by his man Pluto. He had been carousing on board 
of a vessel, newly arrived, and was somewhat obfus- 
cated in intellect, by the liquid he had imbibed. It 
was a still, sultry night; a heavy mass of lurid clouds 
was rising in the west, with the low muttering of dis- 
tant thunder. Vanderscamp called on Pluto to pull 








Spiting Devil, the creek at the north end of Manhattan Island 



X 



Guests from Gibbet Island 19 

lustily, that they might get home before the gathering 
storm. The old negro made no reply, but shaped his 
course so as to skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet 
Island. A faint creaking overhead caused Vander- 
scamp to cast up his eyes, when, to his horror, he 
beheld the bodies of his three pot companions and 
brothers in iniquity, dangling in the moonlight, their 
rags fluttering, and their chains creaking, as they 
were slowly swung backward and forward by the 
rising breeze. 

"What do you mean, you blockhead," cried Van- 
derscamp, "by pulling so close to the island?" 

"I thought you'd be glad to see your old friends 
once more," growled the negro; "you were never 
afraid of a living man, what do you fear from the 
dead.?" 

"Who's afraid.'"' hiccupped Vanderscamp, partly 
heated by liquor, partly nettled by the jeer of the 
negro; "who's afraid.? Hang me, but I would be glad 
to see them once more, alive or dead, at the Wild 
Goose. Come, my lads in the wind," continued he, 
taking a draught, and flourishing the bottle above his 
head, "here's fair weather to you in the other world; 
and if you should be walking the rounds tonight, odds 
fish, but I'll be happy if you will drop in to supper." 

A dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind blew 
loud and shrill, and as it whistled round the gallows, 
and among the bones, sounded as if there were laugh- 
ing and gibbering in the air. Old Pluto chuckled to 
himself, and now pulled for home. The storm burst 
over the voyagers, while they were yet far from shore. 



20 Stories of the Hudson 

The rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed and 
pealed, and the lightning kept up an incessant blaze. 
It was stark midnight before they landed at Commu- 
nlpaw. 

Dripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled home- 
ward. He was completely sobered by the storm; the 
water soaked from without having diluted and cooled 
the liquor within. Arrived at the Wild Goose, he 
knocked timidly and dubiously at the door, for he 
dreaded the reception he was to experience from his 
wife. He had reason to do so. She met him at the 
threshold, in a precious ill-humor. 

"Is this a time," said she, "to keep people out of 
their beds, and to bring home company, to turn the 
house upside down.'"' 

"Company?" said Vanderscamp meekly, "I have 
brought no company with me, wife." 

"No, indeed! they have got here before you, but by 
your invitation; and a blessed looking company they 
are, truly." 

Vanderscamp's knees smote together. "For the 
love of heaven, where are they, wife?" 

" Where .^ — why in the blue room, up stairs, making 
themselves as much at home as if the house were their 
own." 

Vanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled up 
to the room, and threw open the door. Sure enough, 
there at a table on which burned a light as blue as 
brimstone, sat the three guests from Gibbet Island, 
with halters round their necks, and bobbing their cups 
together, as if they were hob-or-nobbing, and trolling 



Guests from Gibbet Island 21 

the old Dutch freebooter's glee, since translated into 
English: 

"For three merry lads be we, 
And three merry lads be we; 
I on the land, and thou on the sand, 
And Jack on the gallows tree." 



Vanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting 
back with horror, he missed his footing on the landing 
place, and fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom. 
He was taken up speechless, and, either from the fall 
or the fright, died and was buried in the yard of the 
little Dutch church at Bergen, on the following 
Sunday. 

From that day forward, the fate of the Wild Goose 
was sealed. It was pronounced a haunted house, and 
avoided accordingly. No one inhabited it but Van- 
derscamp's shrew of a widow, and old Pluto, and they 
were considered but little better than its hobgoblin 
visitors. Pluto grew more and more haggard and 
morose, and looked more like an imp of darkness than 
a human being. He spoke to no one, but went about 
muttering to himself; or, as some hinted, talking with 
the devil, who, though unseen, was ever at his elbow. 
Now and then he was seen pulling about the bay alone, 
in his skiff, in dark weather, or at the approach of night- 
fall; nobody could tell why, unless on an errand to 
invite more guests from the gallows. Indeed it was 
affirmed that the Wild Goose still continued to be a 
house of entertainment for such guests, and that on 



22 Stories of the Hudson 

stormy nights the blue chamber was occasionally 
illuminated, and sounds of diabolical merriment were 
overheard, mingling with the howling of the tempest. 
Some treated these as idle stories, until on one such 
night — it was about the time of the equinox — there 
was a horrible uproar in the Wild Goose, that could not 
be mistaken. It was not so much the sound of revelry, 
however, as strife, with two or three piercing shrieks, 
that pervaded every part of the village. Nevertheless, 
no one thought of hastening to the spot. On the con- 
trary, the honest burghers of Communipaw drew their 
nightcaps over their ears, and buried their heads under 
the bed-clothes, at the thoughts of Vanderscamp and 
his gallows companions. 

The next morning, some of the bolder and more 
curious undertook to reconnoitre. All was quiet and 
lifeless at the Wild Goose. The door yawned wide 
open, and had evidently been open all night, for the 
storm had beaten into the house. Gathering more 
courage from the silence and apparent desertion, they 
gradually ventured over the threshold. The house had 
indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. 
Everything was topsy turvy; trunks had been broken 
open, and chests of drawers and corner cupboards 
turned inside out, as in a time of general sack and 
pillage; but the most woful sight was the v/idow of 
Yan Yost Vanderscamp, extended a corpse on the 
floor of the blue chamber, with the marks of a deadly 
gripe on the windpipe. 

All now was conjecture and dismay at Communipaw; 
and the disappearance of old Pluto, who was nowhere 



Guests from Gibbet Island 23 

to be found, gave rise to all kinds of wild surmises. 
Some suggested that the negro had betrayed the house 
to some of Vanderscamp's buccaneering associates, 
and that they had decamped together with the booty; 
others surmised that the negro was nothing more nor 
less than a devil incarnate, who had now accomplished 
his ends, and made off with his dues. 

Events, however, vindicated the negro from this 
last imputation. His skiif was picked up, drifting 
about the bay, bottom upwards, as if wrecked in a 
tempest; and his body was found, shortly afterwards, 
by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded among the 
rocks of Gibbet Island, near the foot of the pirates' 
gallows. The fishermen shook their heads, and ob- 
served that old Pluto had ventured once too often to 
invite Guests from Gibbet Island. 



WOLFERT'S ROOST 

Chronicle I 

A BOUT five-and- twenty miles from the ancient and 
renowned city of Manhattan, formerly called New 
Amsterdam, and vulgarly called New York, on the 
eastern bank of that expansion of the Hudson known 
among Dutch mariners of yore as the Tappan Zee, 
being in fact the great Mediterranean Sea of the New 
Netherlands, stands a little, old-fashioned stone man- 
sion, all made up of gable ends, and as full of angles and 
corners as an old cocked hat. It is said, in fact, to have 
been modelled after the cocked hat of Peter the Head- 
strong, as the Escurial was modelled after the gridiron 
of the blessed St. Lawrence. Though but of small 
dimensions, yet, like many small people. It is of mighty 
spirit, and values itself greatly on its antiquity, being 
one of the oldest edifices, for its size, in the whole 
country. It claims to be an ancient seat of empire — I 
may rather say an empire in itself — and like all em- 
pires, great and small, has had its grand historical 
epochs. In speaking of this doughty and valorous 
little pile, I shall call it by its usual appellation of "The 
Roost;" though that is a name given to it in modern 
days, since it became the abode of the white man. 



Wolfert's Roost 25 

Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that- remote 
region commonly called the fabulous age, in which 
vulgar fact becomes mystified and tinted up with 
delectable fiction. The eastern shore of the Tappan 
Sea was inhabited in those days by an unsophisticated 
race, existing in all the simplicity of nature; that is to 
say, they lived by hunting and fishing, and recreated 
themselves occasionally with a little tomahawking and 
scalping. Each stream that flows down from the hills 
into the Hudson had its petty sachem, who ruled over 
a hand's-breadth of forest on either side, and had his 
seat of government at its mouth. The chieftain who 
ruled at the Roost was not merely a great warrior, but 
a medicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they all 
mean the same thing in Indian parlance. Of his fight- 
ing propensities evidences still remain, in various arrow- 
heads of flint, and stone battle-axes, occasionally digged 
up about the Roost; of his wizard powers we have a 
token in a spring which wells up at the foot of the bank, 
on the very margin of the river, which, it is said, was 
gifted by him with rejuvenating powers, something 
like the renowned Fountain of Youth in the Floridas, 
so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran 
Ponce de Leon. This story, however, is stoutly con- 
tradicted by an old Dutch matter-of-fact tradition, 
which declares that the spring in question was 
smuggled over from Holland in a churn, by Fem- 
metie Van Blarcom, wife of Goosen Garret Van 
Blarcom, one of the first settlers, and that she took it 
up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside 
their farmhouse near Rotterdam; being sure she should 



26 Stories of the Hudson 

find no water equal to it in the new country — and she 
was right. 

The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing 
territorial questions, and settling boundary lines; in 
other words, he had the spirit of annexation. This 
kept him in continual feud with the neighboring 
sachems, each of whom stood up stoutly for his hand- 
breadth of territory; so that there is not a petty stream 
nor rugged hill in the neighborhood that has not been 
the subject of long talks and hard battles. The sachem, 
however, as has been observed, was a medicine-man as 
well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts as 
well as arms; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting 
here, and hocus-pocus (or diplomacy) there, he man- 
aged to extend his boundary line from field to field and 
stream to stream, until it brought him into collision 
with the powerful sachem of Sing Sing.* Many were 
the sharp conflicts between these rival chieftains for 
the sovereignty of a winding valley, a favorite hunting- 
ground watered by a beautiful stream called the 
Pocantico. Many were the ambuscades, surprisals, 
and deadly onslaughts that took place among its fast- 
nesses, of which it grieves me much that I cannot pur- 
sue the details, for the gratification of those gentle 
but bloody-minded readers, of both sexes, who delight 
in the romance of the tomahawk and scalping-knife. 

*A corruption of the old Indian name, 0-sin-sing. Some have 
rendered it, 0-sin-song, or 0-sing-song, in token of its being a great 
market town, where anything may be had for a mere song. Its 
present melodious alteration to Sing Sing is said to have been made 
in compliment to a Yankee singing master, who taught the inhabit- 
ants the art of singing through the nose. 



Wolfert's Roost 27 

Suffice it to say, that the wizard chieftain was at length 
victorious, though his victory is attributed, in Indian 
tradition, to a great medicine, or charm, by which he 
laid the sachem of Sing Sing and his warriors asleep 
among the rocks and recesses of the valley, where they 
remain asleep to the present day, with their bows and 
war-clubs beside them. This was the origin of that 
potent and drowsy spell, which still prevails over the 
valley of the Pocantico, and which has gained it the 
well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow. Often, in 
secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the 
stream is overhung by dark woods and rocks, the 
ploughman, on some calm and sunny day, as he shouts 
to his oxen, is surprised at hearing faint shouts from 
the hillsides in reply; being, it is said, the spellbound 
warriors, who half start from their rocky couches and 
grasp their weapons, but sink to sleep again. 

The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph 
of the wizard sachem. Notwithstanding all his medi- 
cines and charms, he fell in battle, in attempting to 
extend his boundary line to the east, so as to take in 
the little wild valley of the Sprain; and his grave is 
still shown, near the banks of that pastoral stream. 
He left, however, a great empire to his successors, ex- 
tending along the Tappan Sea, from Yonkers quite to 
Sleepy Hollow, and known in old records and maps by 
the Indian name of Wicquaes-Keck. 

The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs 
of whom nothing remarkable remains on record. One 
of them was the very individual on whom master 
Hendrick Hudson and his mate Robert Juet made that 



28 Stories of the Hudson 

sage experiment gravely recorded by the latter, in the 
narrative of the discovery. 

"Our master and his mate determined to try some 
of the cheefe men of the country, whether they had any 
treacherie in them. So they took them down into the 
cabin, and gave them so much wine and aqua vitae, 
that they were all very merrie; one of them had his 
wife with him, which sate so modestly as any of our 
countrywomen would do in a strange place. In the 
end, one of them was drunke; and that was strange to 
them, for they could not tell how to take it." 

How far master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy 
mate carried their experiment with the sachem's wife, 
is not recorded; neither does the curious Robert Juet 
make any mention of the after consequences of this 
grand moral test; tradition, however, affirms that the 
sachem, on landing, gave his modest spouse a hearty 
rib-roasting, according to the connubial discipline of 
the aboriginals; it farther affirms that he remained a 
hard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all 
his lands, acre by acre, for aqua vitse; by which means 
the Roost and all its domains, from Yonkers to Sleepy 
Hollow, came, in the regular course of trade, and by 
right of purchase, into the possession of the Dutch- 
men. 

The worthy government of the New Netherlands 
was not suffered to enjoy this grand acquisition un- 
molested. In the year 1654, the losel Yankees of Con- 
necticut, those swapping, bargaining, squatting enemies 
of the Manhattoes, made a daring inroad into this 
neighborhood, and founded a colony called Westchester, 




The rocky heights of Jersey 



Wolfert's Roost 29 

or, as the ancient Dutch records term it, Vest Dorp, in 
the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to have 
purchased the whole surrounding country of the In- 
dians, and stood ready to argue their claims before any 
tribunal of Christendom. 

This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter 
Stuyvesant, and roused the ire of that gunpowder old 
hero. Without waiting to discuss claims and titles, he 
pounced at once upon the nest of nefarious squatters, 
carried off twenty-five of them in chains to the Man- 
hattoes; nor did he stay his hand, nor give rest to his 
wooden leg, until he had driven the rest of the Yankees 
back into Connecticut, or obliged them to acknowledge 
allegiance to their High Mightinesses. In revenge, 
however, they introduced the plague of witchcraft into 
the province. This doleful malady broke out at Vest 
Dorp, and would have spread throughout the country 
had not the Dutch farmers nailed horseshoes to the 
doors of their houses and barns, sure protections 
against witchcraft, many of which remain to the pres-. 
ent day. 

The seat of empire of the wizard sachem now came 
into the possession of Wolfert Acker, one of the privy 
counsellors of Peter Stuyvesant. He was a worthy, 
but ill-starred man, whose aim through life had been 
to live in peace and quiet. ^ For this he had emigrated 
from Holland, driven abroad by family feuds and wran- 
gling neighbors. He had warred for quiet through the 
fidgety reign of William the Testy, and the fighting 
reign of Peter the Headstrong, sharing in every brawl 
and rib-roasting, in his eagerness to keep the peace and 



30 Stories of the Hudson 

promote public tranquillity. It was his doom, in fact, 
to meet a head-wind at every turn, and be kept 
in a constant fume and fret by the perverseness of 
mankind. Had he served on a modern jury, he would 
have been sure to have eleven unreasonable men op- 
posed to him. 

At the time when the province of the New Nether- 
lands was wrested from the domination of their High 
Mightinesses by the combined forces of Old and New 
England, Wolfert retired in high dudgeon to this fast- 
ness in the wilderness, with the bitter determination 
to bury himself from the world, and live here for the 
rest of his days in peace and quiet. In token of that 
fixed purpose, he inscribed over his door (his teeth 
clenched at the time) his favorite Dutch motto, "Lust 
in Rust" (pleasure in quiet). The mansion was thence 
called Wolfert's Rust (Wolfert's Rest), but by the 
uneducated, who did not understand Dutch, Wol- 
fert's Roost; probably from its quaint cockloft look, 
and from its having a weathercock perched on every 
gable. 

Wolfert's luck followed him into retirement. He 
had shut himself up from the world, but he had brought 
with him a wife, and it soon passed into a proverb 
throughout the neighborhood that the cock of the Roost 
was the most henpecked bird in the country. His house 
too was reputed to be harassed by Yankee witchcraft. 
When the weather was quiet everywhere else, the wind, 
it was said, would howl and whistle about the gables; 
witches and warlocks would whirl about upon the 
weathercocks, and scream down the chimneys; nay, 



Wolfert's Roost 31 

it was even hinted that Wolfert's wife was in league 
with the enemy, and used to ride on a broomstick to a 
witches' sabbath in Sleepy Hollow. This, however, 
was all mere scandal, founded perhaps on her occa- 
sionally flourishing a broomstick in the course of a cur- 
tain lecture, or raising a storm within doors, as terma- 
gant wives are apt to do, and against which sorcery 
horseshoes are of no avail. 

Wolfert Acker died and was buried, but found no 
quiet even in the grave; for if popular gossip be true, 
his ghost has occasionally been seen walking by moon- 
light among the old gray moss-grown trees of his apple 
orchard. 



Chronicle II 

The next period at which we find this venerable and 
eventful pile rising into importance, was during the 
dark and troublous time of the Revolutionary War. It 
was the keep or stronghold of Jacob Van Tassel, a 
valiant Dutchman of the old stock of Van Tassels, who 
abound in Westchester County. The name as originally 
written, was Van Texel, being derived from the Texel 
in Holland, which gave birth to that heroic line. 

The Roost stood in the very heart of what at that 
time was called the debatable ground, lying between 
the British and American lines. The British held pos- 
session of the city and island of New York; while the 
Americans drew up towards the Highlands, holding 



32 Stories of the Hudson 

their headquarters at Peekskill. The intervening 
country from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek was 
the debatable ground in question, liable to be harried 
by friend and foe, like the Scottish borders of yore. 

It is a rugged region, full of fastnesses. A line of 
rocky hills extends through it like a backbone, sending 
out ribs on either side; but these rude hills are for the 
most part richly wooded, and enclose little fresh pas- 
toral valleys watered by the Neperan, the Pocantico,* 
and other beautiful streams, along which the Indians 
built their wigwams in the olden time. 

In the fastnesses of these hills, and along these val- 
leys, existed, in the time of which I am treating, and 
indeed exist to the present day, a race of hard-headed, 
hard-handed, stout-hearted yeomen, descendants of 
the primitive Nederlanders. Men obstinately attached 
to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought out of 
their paternal acres. Most of them were strong Whigs 
throughout the war; some, however, were Tories, or 
adherents to the old kingly rule, who considered the 
revolution a mere rebellion, soon to be put down by 
his majesty's forces. A number of these took refuge 
within the British lines, joined the military bands of 
refugees, and became pioneers or leaders to foraging 
parties sent out from New York to scour the country 
and sweep oif supplies for the British army. 

*The Neperan, vulgarly called the Sawmill River, winds for 
many miles through a lovely valley, shrouded by groves, and dotted 
by Dutch farmhouses, and empties itself into the Hudson, at the 
ancient Dorp of Yonkers. The Pocantico, rising among woody 
dells, winds in many a wizard maze through the sequestered haunts 
of Sleepy Hollow. 



Wolfert's Roost 33 

In a little while the debatable ground became in- 
fested by roving bands, claiming from either side, and 
all pretending to redress wrongs and punish political 
offences; but all prone in the exercise of their high 
functions, to sack henroosts, drive off cattle, and lay 
farmhouses under contribution; such was the origin 
of two great orders of border chivalry, the Skinners and 
the Cow Boys, famous in Revolutionary story: the 
former fought, or rather marauded, under the American, 
the latter, under the British banner. In the zeal of 
service, both were apt to make blunders, and confound 
the property of friend and foe. Neither of them in the 
heat and hurry of .a foray had time to ascertain the 
politics of a horse or cow, which they were driving off 
into captivity; nor, when they wrung the neck of a 
rooster, did they trouble their heads whether he crowed 
for Congress or King George. 

To check these enormities, a confederacy was formed 
among the yeomanry who had suffered from these 
maraudings. It was composed for the most part of 
farmers' sons, bold, hard-riding lads, well armed, and 
well mounted, and undertook to clear the country 
round of Skinner and Cow Boy, and all other bor- 
der vermin; as the Holy Brotherhood in old times 
cleared Spain of the banditti which infested her high- 
ways. 

Wolfert's Roost was one of the rallying places of this 
confederacy, and Jacob Van Tassel one of its members. 
He was eminently fitted for the service; stout of frame, 
bold of heart, and like his predecessor, the warrior 
sachem of yore, delighting in daring enterprises. He 



34 Stories of the Hudson 

had an Indian's sagacity in discovering when the enemy 
was on the maraud, and in hearing the distant tramp 
of cattle. It seemed as if he had a scout on every hill, 
and an ear as quick as that of Fine Ear in the fairy 
tale. 

The foraging parties of Tories and refugees had now 
to be secret and sudden in their forays into West- 
chester County; to make a hasty maraud among the 
farms, sweep the cattle into a drove, and hurry down 
to the lines along the river road, or the valley of the 
Neperan. Before they were half way down, Jacob Van 
Tassel, with the holy brotherhood of Tarrytown, Petti- 
coat Lane, and Sleepy Hollow, would be clattering at 
their heels. And now there would be a general scamper 
for King's Bridge, the pass over Spiting Devil Creek, 
into the British lines. Sometimes the mosstroopers 
would be overtaken, and eased of part of their booty. 
Sometimes the whole cavalgada would urge its head- 
long course across the bridge with thundering tramp 
and dusty whirlwind. At such times their pursuers 
would rein up their steeds, survey that perilous 
pass with wary eye, and, wheeling about, indemnify 
themselves by foraging the refugee region of Morri- 
sania. 

While the debatable land was liable to be thus har- 
ried, the great Tappan Sea, along which it extends, 
was likewise domineered over by the foe. British ships 
of war were anchored here and there in the wide ex- 
panses of the river, mere floating castles to hold it in 
subjection. Stout galleys armed with eighteen pounders 
and navigated with sails and oars, cruised about like 



Wolfert's Roost 35 

hawks, while rowboats made descents upon the land, 
and foraged the country along shore. 

It was a sore grievance to the yeomanry along the 
Tappan Sea to behold that little Mediterranean 
ploughed by hostile prows, and the noble river of which 
they were so proud reduced to a state of thraldom. 
Councils of war were held by captains of market-boats 
and other river-craft, to devise ways and means of dis- 
lodging the enemy. Here and there on a point of land 
extending into the Tappan Sea, a mud work would be 
thrown up, and an old fieldpiece mounted, with which 
a knot of rustic artillerymen would fire away for a long 
summer's day at some frigate dozing at anchor far out 
of reach; and reliques of such works may still be seen 
overgrown with weeds and brambles, with peradventure 
the half-buried fragment of a cannon which may have 
burst. 

Jacob Van Tassel was a prominent man in these 
belligerent operations; but he was prone, moreover, 
to carry on a petty warfare of his own for his individual 
recreation and refreshment. On a row of hooks above 
the fireplace of the Roost, reposed his great piece of 
ordnance — a duck, or rather goose-gun, of unparalleled 
longitude, with which it was said he could kill a wild 
goose half way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed, there 
are as many wonders told of this renowned gun, as of 
the enchanted weapons of classic story. When the 
belligerent feeling was strong upon Jacob, he would 
take down his gun, sally forth alone, and prowl along 
shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, watching for 
hours together any ship or galley at anchor or becalmed, 



36 Stories of the Hudson 

as a valorous mouser will watch a rat-hole. So sure as a 
boat approached the shore, bang! went the great goose- 
gun, sending on board a shower of slugs and buckshot; 
and away scuttled Jacob Van Tassel through some 
woody ravine. As the Roost stood in a lonely situation, 
and might be attacked, he guarded against surprise by 
making loop-holes in the stone walls, through which to 
fire upon an assailant. His wife was stout-hearted as 
himself, and could load as fast as he could fire; and his 
sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a redoubtable widow, was 
a match, as he said, for the stoutest man in the country. 
Thus garrisoned, his little castle was fitted to stand a 
siege, and Jacob was the man to defend it to the last 
charge of powder. 

In the process of time the Roost became one of the 
secret stations, or lurking-places, of the Water Guard. 
This was an aquatic corps in the pay of government, 
organized to range the waters of the Hudson, and keep 
watch upon the movements of the enemy. It was com- 
posed of nautical men of the river, and hardy young- 
sters of the adjacent country, expert at pulling an oar 
or handling a musket. They were provided with whale- 
boats, long and sharp, shaped like canoes, and formed 
to lie lightly on the water, and be rowed with great 
rapidity. In these they would lurk out of sight by day, 
in nooks and bays, and behind points of land, keeping 
a sharp lookout upon the British ships, and giving 
intelligence to headquarters of any extraordinary 
movement. At night they rowed about in pairs, pulling 
quietly along with muffled oars, under shadow of the 
land, or gliding like spectres about frigates and guard- 




Beam Island 



Wolfert's Roost 37 

ships to cut off any boat that might be sent to shore. 
In this way they were a source of constant uneasiness 
and alarm to the enemy. 

The Roost, as has been observed, was one of their 
lurking-places; having a cove in front where their 
whaleboats could be drawn up out of sight, and Jacob 
Van Tassel being a vigilant ally, ready to take a part 
in any "scout or scrummage" by land or water. At 
this little warrior nest the hard-riding lads from the 
hills would hold consultations with the chivalry of the 
river, and here were concerted divers of those daring 
enterprises which resounded from Spiting Devil Creek 
even unto Anthony's Nose. Here was concocted the 
midnight invasion of New York Island, and the con- 
flagration of Delancy's Tory mansion, which makes 
such a blaze in revolutionary history. Nay, more, if 
the traditions of the Roost may be credited, here was 
meditated, by Jacob Van Tassel and his compeers, a 
nocturnal foray into New York itself, to surprise and 
carry off the British commanders, Howe and Clinton, 
and put a triumphant close to the war. 

There is no knowing whether this notable scheme 
might not have been carried into effect, had not one of 
Jacob Van Tassel's egregious exploits along shore with 
his goose-gun, with which he thought himself a match 
for anything, brought vengeance on his house. 

It so happened, that in the course of one of his soli- 
tary prowls he descried a British transport aground; 
the stern swung toward shore within point-blank shot. 
The temptation was too great to be resisted. Bang! 
went the great goose-gun, from the covert of the trees, 



38 Stones of the Hudson 

shivering the cabin windows and driving all hands for- 
ward. Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The 
reports brought other of Jacob's fellow bush-fighters 
to the spot. Before the transport could bring a gun to 
bear, or land a boat to take revenge, she was soundly 
peppered, and the coast evacuated. 

This was the last of Jacob's triumphs. He fared like 
some heroic spider that has unwittingly ensnared a 
hornet to the utter ruin of his web. It was not long 
after the above exploit that he fell into the hands of the 
enemy in the course of one of his forays, and was carried 
away prisoner to New York. The Roost itself, as a 
pestilent rebel nest, was marked out for signal pun- 
ishment. The cock of the Roost being captive, there 
was none to garrison it but his stout-hearted spouse, 
his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, and Dinah, 
a strapping negro wench. An armed vessel came to 
anchor in front; a boat full of men pulled to shore. 
The garrison flew to arms; that is to say, to mops, 
broomsticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of domestic 
weapons — for unluckily the great piece of ordnance, 
the goose-gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, 
a vigorous defence was made with that most potent of 
female weapons, the tongue. Never did invaded hen- 
roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all in 
vain. The house was sacked and plundered, fire was 
set to each corner, and in a few moments its blaze shed 
a baleful light far over the Tappan Sea. The invaders 
then pounced upon the blooming Laney Van Tassel, 
the beauty of the Roost, and endeavored to bear her 
off to the boat. But here was the real tug of war. The 



Wolfert's Roost 39 

mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench, all 
flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to 
the very water's edge, when a voice from the armed 
vessel at anchor ordered the spoilers to desist; they 
relinquished their prize, jumped into their boats, and 
pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a 
mere rumpling of her feathers. 

As to the stout Jacob himself, he was detained a 
prisoner in New York for the greater part of the war; 
in the meantime the Roost remained a melancholy 
ruin, its stone walls and brick chimneys alone standing, 
the resorts of bats and owls. Superstitious notions 
prevailed about it. None of the country people would 
venture alone at night down the rambling lane which 
led to it, overhung with trees, and crossed here and 
there by a wild wandering brook. The story went 
that one of the victims of Jacob Van Tassel's great 
goose-gun had been buried there in unconsecrated 
ground. 

Even the Tappan Sea in front was said to be haunted. 
Often in the still twilight of a summer evening, when 
the sea would be as glass, and the opposite hills would 
throw their purple shadows half across it, a low sound 
would be heard as of the steady, vigorous pull of oars, 
though not a boat was to be descried. Some might 
have supposed that a boat was rowed along unseen 
under the deep shadows of the opposite shores; but the 
ancient traditionists of the neighborhood knew better. 
Some said it was one of the whaleboats of the old 
Water Guard, sunk by the British ships during the war, 
but now permitted to haunt its old cruising-grounds; 



40 Stories of the Hudson 

but the prevalent opinion connected it with the awful 
fate of Rambout Van Dam of graceless memory. He 
was a roistering Dutchman of Spiting Devil, who in 
times long past had navigated his boat alone one Sat- 
urday the whole length of the Tappan Sea, to attend 
a quilting frolic at Kakiat, on the western shore. Here 
he had danced and drunk until midnight, when he 
entered his boat to return home. He was warned that 
he was on the verge of Sunday morning; but he pulled 
off nevertheless, swearing he would not land until he 
reached Spiting Devil, if it took him a month of Sun- 
days. He was never seen afterwards; but may be 
heard plying his oars, as above mentioned — being the 
Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Sea, doomed to ply 
between Kakiat and Spiting Devil until the day of 
judgment. 



Chronicle HI 



The Revolutionary War was over. The debatable 
ground had once more become a quiet agricultural 
region; the border chivalry had turned their swords 
into ploughshares, and their spears into prunlng-hooks, 
and hung up their guns, only to be taken down occa- 
sionally in a campaign against wild pigeons on the hills, 
or wild ducks upon the Hudson. Jacob Van Tassel, 
whilom carried captive to New York, a flagitious 
rebel, had come forth from captivity a "hero of seventy- 
six." In a little while he sought the scenes of his former 



Wolfert's Roost 41 

triumphs and mishaps, rebuilt the Roost, restored his 
goose-gun to the hooks over the fireplace, and reared 
once more on high the glittering weathercocks. 

Years and years passed over the time-honored little 
mansion. The honeysuckle and the sweetbrier crept 
up its walls; the wren and the phoebe-bird built under 
the eaves; it gradually became almost hidden among 
trees, through which it looked forth, as with half-shut 
eyes, upon the Tappan Sea. The Indian spring, famous 
in the days of the wizard sachem, still welled up at the 
bottom of the green bank; and the wild brook, wild as 
ever, came babbling down the ravine, and threw itself 
into the little cove where of yore the Water Guard 
harbored their whaleboats. 

Such was the state of the Roost many years since, at 
the time when Diedrich Knickerbocker came into this 
neighborhood, in the course of his researches among the 
Dutch families for materials for his immortal history. 
The exterior of the eventful little pile seemed to him 
full of promise. The crow-step gables were of the primi- 
tive architecture of the province. The weathercocks 
which surmounted them had crowed in the glorious 
days of the New Netherlands. The one above the 
porch had actually glittered of yore on the great Vander 
Heyden palace at Albany. 

The interior of the mansion fulfilled its external 
promise. Here were records of old times; documents 
of the Dutch dynasty, rescued from the profane hands 
of the English by Wolfert Acker, when he retreated 
from New Amsterdam. Here he had treasured them 
up like buried gold, and here they had been miraculously 



42 Stories of the Hudson 

preserved by St. Nicholas, at the time of the conflagra- 
tion of the Roost. 

Here then did old Diedrich Knickerbocker take up 
his abode for a time and set to work with antiquarian 
zeal to decipher these precious documents, which, like 
the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former 
historians; and it is the facts drawn from these sources 
which give his work the preference, in point of accuracy, 
over every other history. 

It was during his sojourn in this eventful neighbor- 
hood that the historian is supposed to have picked up 
many of those legends, which have since been given by 
him to the world, or found among his papers. Such 
was the legend connected with the old Dutch church 
of Sleepy Hollow. The church itself was a monument of 
bygone days. It had been built in the early times 
of the province. A tablet over the portal bore the names 
of its founders — Frederick Filipson, a mighty man of 
yore, patroon of Yonkers, and his wife Katrina Van 
Courtland, of the Van Courtlands of Croton; a power- 
ful family connection, with one foot resting on Spiting 
Devil Creek, and the other on the Croton River. 

Two weathercocks, with the initials of these illustrious 
personages, graced each end of the church, one perched 
over the belfry, the other over the chancel. As usual 
with ecclesiastical weathercocks, each pointed a dif- 
ferent way; and there was a perpetual contradiction 
between them on all points of windy doctrine; em- 
blematic, alas! of the Christian propensity to schism 
and controversy. 

In the burying-ground adjacent to the church, re- 



Wolfert's Roost 43 

posed the earliest fathers of a wide rural neighborhood. 
Here families were garnered together, side by side, in 
long platoons, in this last gathering place of kindred. 
With pious hand would Diedrich Knickerbocker turn 
down the weeds and brambles which had overgrown 
the tombstones, to decipher inscriptions in Dutch and 
English, of the names and virtues of succeeding genera- 
tions of Van Tassels, Van Warts, and other historical 
worthies, with their portraitures faithfully carved, all 
bearing the family likeness to cherubs. 

The congregation in those days was of a truly rural 
character. City fashions had not as yet stole up to 
Sleepy Hollow. Dutch sunbonnets and honest home- 
spun still prevailed. Everything was in primitive style, 
even to the bucket of water and tin cup near the door 
in summer, to assuage the thirst caused by the heat of 
the weather or the drought of the sermon. 

The pulpit, with its widespreading sounding board, 
and the communion table, curiously carved, had each 
come from Holland in the olden time, before the arts 
had sufficiently advanced in the colony for such achieve- 
ments. Around these on Sundays would be gathered 
the elders of the church, gray-headed men, who led the 
psalmody, and in whom it would be difficult to recog- 
nize the hard-riding lads of yore, who scoured the 
debatable land in the time of the Revolution. 

The drowsy influence of Sleepy Hollow was apt to 
breathe into this sacred edifice; and now and then an 
elder might be seen with his handkerchief over his face 
to keep off the flies, and apparently listening to the 
dominie; but really sunk into a summer slumber, 



44 Stories of the Hudson 

lulled by the sultry notes of the locust from the neigh- 
boring trees. 

And now a word or two about Sleepy Hollow, which 
many have rashly deemed a fanciful creation, like the 
Lubberland of mariners. It was probably the mystic 
and dreamy sound of the name which first tempted the 
historian of the Manhattoes into its spell-bound mazes. 
As he entered, all nature seemed for the moment to 
awake from its slumbers and break forth in gratulations. 
The quail whistled a welcome from the cornfield; the 
loquacious catbird flew from bush to bush with restless 
wing proclaiming his approach, or perked inquisitively 
into his face as if to get a knowledge of his physiognomy. 
The woodpecker tapped a tattoo on the hollow apple 
tree, and then peered round the trunk, as if asking how 
he relished the salutation; while the squirrel scampered 
along the fence, whisking his tail over his head by way 
of a huzza. 

Here reigned the golden mean extolled by poets, in 
which no gold was to be found and very little silver. 
The inhabitants of the Hollow were of the primitive 
stock, and had intermarried and bred in and in, from 
the earliest time of the province, never swarming far 
from the parent hive, but dividing and subdividing 
their paternal acres as they swarmed. 

Here were small farms, each having its little portion 
of meadow and cornfield; its orchard of gnarled and 
sprawling apple trees; its garden, in which the rose, 
the marigold, and hollyhock, grew sociably with the 
cabbage, the pea, and the pumpkin; each had its low- 
eaved mansion redundant with white-headed children; 




In Sleepy Hollow Churchyard 
Near the summit of the hill, under the trees, is Irving^s grave 



Wolfert's Roost 45 

with an old hat nailed against the wall for the house- 
keeping wren; the coop on the grassplot, where the 
motherly hen clucked round with her vagrant brood: 
each had its stone well, with a moss-covered bucket 
suspended to the long balancing-pole, according to 
antediluvian hydraulics; while within doors resounded 
the eternal hum of the spinning wheel. 

Many were the great historical facts which the worthy 
Diedrich collected in these lowly mansions, and pa- 
tiently would he sit by the old Dutch housewives with 
a child on his knee, or a purring grimalkin on his lap, 
listing to endless ghost stories spun forth to the hum- 
ming accompaniment of the wheel. 

The delighted historian pursued his explorations far 
into the foldings of the hills where the Pocantico winds 
its wizard stream among the mazes of its old Indian 
haunts; sometimes running darkly in pieces of wood- 
land beneath balancing sprays of beech and chestnut; 
sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh, 
green intervals; here and there receiving the tributes 
of silver rills which came whimpering down the hill- 
sides from their parent springs. 

In a remote part of the Hollow, where the Pocantico 
forced its way down rugged rocks, stood Carl's mill, 
the haunted house of the neighborhood. It was indeed 
a goblin-looking pile; shattered and timeworn, dismal 
with clanking wheels and rushing streams, and all kinds 
of uncouth noises. A horseshoe nailed to the door to 
keep off witches, seemed to have lost its power; for as 
Diedrich approached, an old negro thrust his head all 
dabbled with flour out of a hole above the water wheel. 



46 Stones of the Hudson 

and grinned and rolled his eyes, and appeared to be the 
very hobgoblin of the place. Yet this proved to be the 
great historic genius of the Hollow, abounding in that 
valuable information never to be acquired from books. 
Diedrich Knickerbocker soon discovered his merit. 
They had long talks together seated on a broken mill- 
stone, heedless of the water and the clatter of the mill; 
and to his conference with that African sage many 
attribute the surprising, though true story, of Ichabod 
Crane and the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 
We refrain, however, from giving further researches of 
the historian of the Manhattoes during his sojourn 
at the Roost, but may return to them in future 
pages. 

Reader, the Roost still exists. Time, which changes 
all things, is slow in its operations on a Dutchman's 
dwelling. The stout Jacob Van Tassel, it is true, sleeps 
with his fathers; and his great goose-gun with him: 
yet his stronghold still bears the impress of its Dutch 
origin. Odd rumors have gathered about it, as they 
are apt to do about old mansions, like moss and weather- 
stains. The shade of Wolfert Acker still walks his 
unquiet rounds at night in the orchard; and a white 
figure has now and then been seen seated at a window 
and gazing at the moon, from a room in which a young 
lady is said to have died of love and green apples. 

Mementos of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker 
are still cherished at the Roost. His elbow chair and 
antique writing desk maintain their place in the room 
he occupied, and his old cocked hat still hangs on a peg 
against the wall. 



PETER STUYVESANT'S VOYAGE UP 
THE HUDSON 

"^^OW did the soft breezes of the south steal sweetly 
over the face of nature, tempering the panting 
heats of summer into genial and prolific warmth, when 
that miracle of hardihood and chivalric virtue, the 
dauntless Peter Stuyvesant, spread his canvas to the 
wind, and departed from the fair Island of Manna- 
hata. The galley in which he embarked was sumptu- 
ously adorned with pendants and streamers of gor- 
geous dyes, which fluttered gayly in the wind, or drooped 
their ends into the bosom of the stream. The bow and 
poop of this majestic vessel were gallantly bedight, 
after the rarest Dutch fashion, with figures of little 
pursy Cupids with periwigs on their heads, and bear- 
ing in their hands garlands of flowers, the like of which 
are not to be found in any book of botany; being the 
matchless flowers which flourished in the golden age, 
and exist no longer, unless it be in the imaginations 
of ingenious carvers of wood and discolorers of 
canvas. 

Thus rarely decorated, in style befitting the puis- 
sant potentate of the Manhattoes, did the galley of 
Peter Stuyvesant launch forth upon the bosom of the 
lordly Hudson, which, as it rolled its broad waves to 

47 



48 Stories of the Hudson 

the ocean, seemed to pause for a while and swell with 
pride, as if conscious of the illustrious burden it sus- 
tained. 

But trust me, gentlefolk, far other was the scene 
presented to the contemplation of the crew from that 
which may be witnessed at this degenerate day. 
Wildness and savage majesty reigned on the borders 
of this mighty river — the hand of cultivation had not 
as yet laid low the dark forest, and tamed the features 
of the landscape — nor had the frequent sail of com- 
merce broken in upon the profound and awful solitude 
of ages. Here and there might be seen a rude wigwam 
perched among the cliffs of the mountains with its 
curling column of smoke mounting in the transparent 
atmosphere — but so loftily situated that the whoop- 
ings of the savage children, gambolling on the margin 
of the dizzy heights, fell almost as faintly on the ear 
as do the notes of the lark, when lost in the azure vault 
of heaven. Now and then, from the beetling brow of 
some precipice, the wild deer would look timidly down 
upon the splendid pageant as it passed below; and 
then, tossing his antlers in the air, would bound away 
into the thickets of the forest. 

Through such scenes did the stately vessel of Peter 
Stuyvesant pass. Now did they skirt the bases of the 
rocky heights of Jersey, which spring up like everlast- 
ing walls, reaching from the waves unto the heavens, 
and were fashioned, if tradition may be believed, in 
times long past, by the mighty spirit Manetho, to pro- 
tect his favorite abodes from the unhallowed eyes of 
mortals. Now did they career it gayly across the vast 



Peter Stuyvesant's Voyage up the Hudson 49 

expanse of Tappan Bay, whose wide-extended shores 
present a variety of delectable scenery — here the bold 
promontory, crowned with embowering trees, advanc- 
ing into the bay — there the long woodland slope, sweep- 
ing up from the shore in rich luxuriance, and terminat- 
ing in the upland precipice — while at a distance a long 
waving line of rocky heights threw their gigantic shades 
across the water. Now would they pass where some 
modest little intervale, opening among these stupendous 
scenes, yet retreating as it were for protection into the 
embraces of the neighboring mountains, displayed a 
rural paradise, fraught with sweet and pastoral beauties; 
the velvet-tufted lawn — the bushy copse — the twink- 
ling rivulet, stealing through the fresh and vivid ver- 
dure — on whose banks was situated some little Indian 
village, or, peradventure, the rude cabin of some soli- 
tary hunter. 

The different periods of the revolving day seemed 
each, with cunning magic, to diffuse a different charm 
to the scene. Now would the jovial sun break glori- 
ously from the east, blazing from the summits of the 
hills, and sparkling the landscape with a thousand 
dewy gems; while along the borders of the river were 
seen heavy masses of mist, which, like midnight 
caitiffs, disturbed at his approach, made a sluggish 
retreat, rolling in sullen reluctance up the mountains. 
At such times all was brightness, and life, and gayety 
— the atmosphere was of an indescribable pureness and 
transparency — the birds broke forth in wanton mad- 
rigals, and the freshening breezes wafted the vessel 
merrily on her course. But when the sun sank amid a 



50 Stones of the Hudson 

flood of glory in the west, mantling the heavens and 
the earth with a thousand gorgeous dyes — then all 
was calm, and silent, and magnificent. The late swell- 
ing sail hung lifelessly against the mast — the seaman, 
with folded arms, leaned against the shrouds, lost in 
that involuntary musing which the sober grandeur of 
nature commands in the rudest of her children. The 
vast bosom of the Hudson was like an unruffled mirror, 
reflecting the golden splendor of the heavens; except- 
ing that now and then a bark canoe would steal across 
its surface, filled with painted savages, whose gay 
feathers glared brightly, as perchance a lingering ray 
of the setting sun gleamed upon them from the western 
mountains. 

But when the hour of twilight spread its majestic 
mists around, then did the face of nature assume a 
thousand fugitive charms, which to the worthy heart 
that seeks enjoyment in the glorious works of its Maker 
are inexpressibly captivating. The mellow dubious 
light that prevailed just served to tinge with illusive 
colors the softened features of the scenery. The de- 
ceived but delighted eye sought vainly to discern in the 
broad masses of shade, the separating line between the 
land and water; or to distinguish the fading objects 
that seemed sinking into chaos. Now did the busy 
fancy supply the feebleness of vision, producing with 
industrious craft a fairy creation of her own. Under 
her plastic wand the barren rocks frowned upon the 
watery waste, in the semblance of lofty towers and 
high embattled castles — trees assumed the direful 
forms of mighty giants, and the inaccessible summits 



Peter Stuyvesant's Voyage up the Hudson 51 

of the mountains seemed peopled with a thousand 
shadowy beings. 

Now broke forth from the shores the notes of an 
innumerable variety of insects, which filled the air 
with a strange but not inharmonious concert — while ever 
and anon was heard the melancholy plaint of the Whip- 
poorwill, who, perched on some lone tree, wearied the 
ear of night with his incessant moanings. The mind, 
soothed into a hallowed melancholy, listened with 
pensive stillness, to catch and distinguish each sound 
that vaguely echoed from the shore — now and then 
startled perchance by the whoop of some straggling 
savage, or by the dreary howl of a wolf, stealing forth 
upon his nightly prowlings. 

Thus happily did they pursue their course, until 
they entered upon those awful defiles denominated 
THE Highlands, where it would seem that the gigantic 
Titans had erst waged their impious war with heaven, 
piling up cliffs on cliffs, and hurling vast masses of rock 
in wild confusion. But in sooth very different is the 
history of these cloud-capped mountains. These, in 
ancient days, before the Hudson poured its waters from 
the lakes, formed one vast prison, within whose rocky 
bosom the omnipotent Manetho confined the rebellious 
spirits who repined at his control. Here, bound in 
adamantine chains, or jammed in rifted pines, or 
crushed by ponderous rocks, they groaned for many an 
age. At length, the conquering Hudson, in its career 
towards the ocean, burst open their prison-house, 
rolling its tide triumphantly through the stupendous 
ruins. 



52 Stories of the Hudson 

Still, however, do many of them lurk about their old 
abodes; and these it is, according to venerable legends, 
that cause the echoes which resound throughout these 
awful solitudes; which are nothing but their angry 
clamors when any noise disturbs the profoundness of 
their repose. For when the elements are agitated by 
tempest, when the winds are up and the thunder rolls, 
then horrible is the yelling and howling of these troubled 
spirits, making the mountains to rebellow with their 
hideous uproar; for at such times it is said that they 
think the great Manetho is returning once more to 
plunge them in gloomy caverns, and renew their intol- 
erable captivity. 

But all these fair and glorious scenes were lost upon 
the gallant Stuyvesant; naught occupied his mind but 
thoughts of iron war, and proud anticipations of hardy 
deeds of arms. Neither did his honest crew trouble 
their heads with any romantic speculations of the kind. 
The pilot at the helm quietly smoked his pipe, thinking 
of nothing either past, present, or to come; those of 
his comrades who were not industriously smoking under 
the hatches were listening with open mouths to Antony 
Van Corlear; who, seated on the windlass, was relating 
to them the marvellous history of those myriads of 
fireflies, that sparkled like gems and spangles upon the 
dusky robe of night. These, according to tradition, 
were originally a race of pestilent sempiternous bel- 
dames, who peopled these parts long before the memory 
of man; being of that abominated race emphatically 
called brimstones; and who, for their innumerable sins 
against the children of men, and to furnish an awful 



Peter Stuyvesant's Voyage up the Hudson 53 

warning to the beauteous sex, were doomed to infest 
the earth in the shape of these threatening and terrible 
Httle bugs; enduring the internal torments of that fire, 
which they formerly carried in their hearts and breathed 
forth in their words; but now are sentenced to bear 
about for ever — in their tails! 

And now I am going to tell a fact, which I doubt 
much my readers will hesitate to believe; but if they 
do, they are welcome not to believe a word in this whole 
history — for nothing which it contains is more true. 
It must be known then that the nose of Antony the 
Trumpeter was of a very lusty size, strutting boldly 
from his countenance like a mountain of Golconda; 
being sumptuously bedecked with rubies and other 
precious stones — the true regalia of a king of good fel- 
lows, which jolly Bacchus grants to all who bouse it 
heartily at the flagon. Now thus it happened, that 
bright and early in the morning, the good Antony, 
having washed his burly visage, was leaning over the 
quarter railing of the galley, contemplating it in the 
glassy wave below. Just at this moment the illustrious 
sun, breaking in all his splendor from behind a high 
bluff of the Highlands, did dart one of his most potent 
beams full upon the refulgent nose of the sounder of 
brass — the reflection of which shot straightway down 
hissing hot, into the water, and killed a mighty sturgeon 
that was sporting beside the vessel! This huge monster, 
being with Infinite labor hoisted on board, furnished a 
luxurious repast to all the crew, being accounted of 
excellent flavor, excepting about the wound, where it 
smacked a little of brimstone — and this, on my verac- 



54 Stories of the Hudson 

ity, was the first time that ever sturgeon was eaten in 
these parts by Christian people.* 

When this astonishing miracle came to be made 
known to Peter Stuyvesant, and he tasted of the 
unknown fish, he, as may well be supposed, marvelled 
exceedingly: and as a monument thereof, he gave the 
name of Antonyms Nose to a stout promontory in the 
neighborhood — and it has continued to be called An- 
thony's Nose ever since that time. 

But hold: whither am I wandering.? By the mass, 
if I attempt to accompany the good Peter Stuyvesant 
on this voyage, I shall never make an end; for never 
was there a voyage so fraught with marvellous inci- 
dents, nor a river so abounding with transcendent 
beauties, worthy of being severally recorded. Even 
now I have it on the point of my pen to relate how his 
crew were most horribly frightened, on going on shore 
above the Highlands, by a gang of merry roistering 
devils, frisking and curvetting on a flat rock, which pro- 
jected into the river — and which is called the DuyveVs 
Dans-Kamer to this very day. But no! Diedrich 
Knickerbocker — it becomes thee not to idle thus in 
thy historic wayfaring. 

Recollect that while dwelling with the fond garrulity 
of age over these fairy scenes, endeared to thee by the 
recollections of thy youth, and the charms of a thousand 



* The learned Hans Megapolonsis, treating of the country about 
Albany, in a letter which was written some time after the settle- 
ment thereof, says: "There is in the river great plenty of stur- 
geon which we Christians do not make use of, but the Indians 
eat them greedily." 



Peter Stuyvesant's Voyage up the Hudson 55 

legendary tales, which beguiled the simple ear of thy 
childhood; recollect that thou art trifling with those 
fleeting moments which should be devoted to loftier 
themes. Is not Time — relentless Time! shaking, with 
palsied hand, his almost exhausted hourglass before 
'thee? — hasten then to pursue thy weary task, lest the 
last sands be run ere thou hast finished thy history of 
the Manhattoes. 



THE CHRONICLE OF BEARN ISLAND* 



TN the golden days of New Amsterdam, according to 
the accounts of its venerable historian, the ambition 
of its burghers contented itself for a while within the 
bounds of the fair island of Mannahata, insomuch that 
Spiting Devil and Hell Gate were to them the pillars of 
Hercules, the ne plus ultra of human enterprise. In 
process of time, however, the New Amsterdamers 
began to cast wistful looks at the lands of their Indian 
neighbors; for somehow or other Indian land' has a 
wild flavor to the taste of a settler, and looks greener in 
his eyes than the land he lawfully occupies. Oloffe the 
Dreamer, at that time protector of New Amsterdam, 
encouraged these notions; having the inherent spirit 
of a land speculator, quickened and expanded by his 
having become a landholder. Under his protectorship 
certain exploring expeditions were sent forth "to sow 
the seeds of empire in the wilderness." One of these 
ascended the Hudson and established a frontier post, 
or trading house, called Fort Aurania, on the site of the 
present venerable city of Albany; which, at that time, 
was considered the very end of the habitable world. 
With this remote possession the mother city of New 
Amsterdam for a long time held but little intercourse. 

*A rocky island a few miles below Albany. 

s6 



The Chronicle of Beam Island 57 

Now and then the company's yacht, as it was called 
(meaning the yacht of the Honorable the East India 
Company), was sent to carry supplies to the fort and to 
bring away the peltries which had been purchased of 
the Indians. It was like an expedition to the Indias, 
or the North Pole, and always made great talk in the 
settlement. Sometimes an adventurous burgher would 
accompany the expedition, to the great uneasiness of 
his friends; but, on his return, had so many stories to 
tell of storms and tempests on the Tappan Zee; of 
hobgoblins in the Highlands and at the Devil's Dans 
Kammer, and of all the other wonders and perils with 
which the river abounded in those early days, that he 
deterred the less adventurous inhabitants from follow- 
ing his example. 

Matters remained in this state until the time of 
Walter the Doubter, and Fort Aurania seemed as re- 
mote as Oregon in modern days. Now so it happened 
that one day as that most dubious of Governors and 
his burgermeesters were smoking and pondering over the 
affairs of the province, they were roused by the report of 
a cannon. Sallying forth, they beheld a strange vessel at 
anchor in the bay. It was unquestionably of Dutch 
build; broad bottomed and high pooped, and bore the 
flag of their High Mightinesses at the masthead. 

After a while a boat put off for land, and a stranger 
stepped on shore, a lofty, lordly kind of man, tall and 
dry, with a meagre face, furnished with huge mous- 
taches. He was clad in Flemish doublet and hose, and 
an insufferably tall hat, with a cocktail feather. Such 
was the patroon Killian Van Rensellaer, who had come 



58 Stories of the Hudson 

out from Holland to found a colony or patroonship on 
a great tract of wild land, granted to him by their High 
Mightinesses, the Lords States General, in the upper 
regions of the Hudson. 

Killian Van Rensellaer was a nine days' wonder in 
New Amsterdam; for he carried a high head, looked 
down upon the portly, short-legged burgomasters, and 
owned no allegiance to the governor himself; boasting 
that he held his patroonship directly from the Lords 
States General. 

He tarried but a short time in New Amsterdam; 
merely to beat up recruits for his colony. Few, how- 
ever, ventured to enlist for those remote and savage 
regions; and when they embarked, their friends took 
leave of them as if they should never see them more; 
and stood gazing with tearful eye as the stout, round- 
sterned little vessel ploughed and splashed its way up 
the Hudson, with great noise and little progress, taking 
nearly a day to get out of sight of the city. 

And now, from time to time, floated down tidings to 
the Manhattoes of the growing importance of this new 
colony. Every account represented Killian Van Ren- 
sellaer as rising in importance, and becoming a mighty 
patroon in the land. He had received more recruits 
from Holland. His patroonship of Rensellaerwick lay 
immediately below Fort Aurania, and extended for 
several miles on each side of the Hudson, besides em- 
bracing the mountainous region of the Helderberg. 
Over all this he claimed to hold separate jurisdiction, 
independent of the colonial authorities at New 
Amsterdam. 



The Chronicle of Beam Island 59 

All these assumptions of authority were duly re- 
ported to Governor Van Twiller and his council, by 
dispatches from Fort Aurania; at each new report the 
governor and his councillors looked at each other, 
raised their eyebrows, gave an extra puff or two of 
smoke, and then relapsed into their usual tranquillity. 

At length tidings came that the patroon of Rensel- 
laerwick had extended his usurpations along the river, 
beyond the limits granted him by their High Mighti- 
nesses; and that he had even seized upon a rocky island 
in the Hudson, commonly known by the name of Beam 
or Bear's Island, where he was erecting a fortress, to be 
called by the lordly name of Rensellaerstein. 

Wouter Van Twiller was roused by this intelligence. 
After consulting with his burgomasters, he dispatched 
a letter to the patroon of Rensellaerwick, demanding 
by what right he had seized upon this island, which lay 
heyhnd the bounds of his patroonship. The answer of 
Killian Van Rensellaer was in his own lordly style. 
^^ By wapen rechtP' that is to say, by the right of arms, 
or, in common parlance, by club-law. This answer 
plunged the worthy Wouter into one of the deepest 
doubts he encountered in the whole course of his ad- 
ministration, but while he doubted, the lordly Killian 
went on to complete his sturdy little castellum of Ren- 
sellaerstein. This done, he garrisoned it with a number 
of his tenants from the Helderberg, a mountain region, 
famous for the hardest heads and hardest fists in the 
province. Nicholas Koorn, his faithful squire, accus- 
tomed to strut at his heels, wear his cast-off clothes, 
and imitate his lofty bearing, was established in this 



6o Stories of the Hudson 

post as wacht-meester. His duty it was to keep an eye 
on the river, and obHge every vessel that passed, unless 
on the service of their High Mightinesses, the Lords 
States General of Holland, to strike its flag, lower its 
peak, and pay toll to the lord of Rensellaerstein. 

Many were the complaints rendered in to Wouter 
Van Twiller by the skippers of the Hudson of these 
wrongs inflicted on them by the little wart of a castle; 
all which tended marvellously to increase his doubts 
and perplexities, insomuch that when William the Testy 
succeeded him in oflice, he found whole bundles of state- 
ments of these offences filed away in the archives of 
government, with the dubious superscription "to be 
considered." William the Testy was not a man to take 
things so patiently. He wrote sharp remonstrances to 
Killian Van Rensellaer, representing his assumption of 
sovereign authority on the river as equal to the out- 
rages of the Robber Counts of Germany, from their 
castles on the Rhine. His remonstrances were treated 
with silent contempt, and thus a sore place, or, in 
Hibernian phrase, a raw, was established in the irritable 
soul of the little governor, insomuch that He winced at 
the very name of Rensellaerstein. 

Now it came to pass, that on a fine sunny day the 
Company's yacht, the Half Moon, having been on one 
of its stated visits to Fort Aurania, was quietly tiding 
it down the Hudson; the commander, Govert Locker- 
man, a veteran Dutch skipper of few words but great 
bottom, was seated on the high poop, quietly smoking 
his pipe, under the shadow of the proud flag of Orange 
when, on arriving abreast of Beam Island, he was 




OQ 






e^ 



The Chronicle of Beam Island 6i 

saluted by a stentorian voice from the shore, "Lower 
thy flag, and be d — d to thee!" 

Govert Lockerman, without taking his pipe out of 
his mouth, turned up his eye from under his broad- 
brimmed hat to see who hailed him thus discourteously. 
There, on the ramparts of the fort, stood Nicholas 
Koorn, armed to the teeth, flourishing a brass-hilted 
sword, while a steeple-crowned hat and cock's tail- 
feather, formerly worn by Killian Van Rensellaer him- 
self, gave an inexpressible loftiness to his demeanor. 

Govert Lockerman eyed the warrior from top to toe, 
but was not to be dismayed. Taking the pipe slowly 
out of his mouth, "To whom should I lower my flag.^" 
demanded he. 

"To the high and mighty Killian Van Rensellaer, 
the lord of Rensellaerstein!" was the reply. 

"I lower it to none but the Prince of Orange, and my 
masters, the Lords States General." So saying, he 
resumed his pipe, and smoked with an air of dogged 
determination. 

Bang! went a gun from the fortress; the ball cut both 
sail and rigging. Govert Lockerman said nothing, but 
smoked the more doggedly. 

Bang! went another gun; the shot whistling close 
astern. 

"Fire, and be d — d," cried Govert Lockerman, cram- 
ming a new charge of tobacco into his pipe, and smok- 
ing with still increasing vehemence. 

Bang! went a third gun. The shot passed over his 
head, tearing a hole in the "princely flag of Orange." 

This was the hardest trial of all for the pride and 



62 Stories of the Hudson 

patience of Govert Lockerman; he maintained a stub- 
born though swelHng silence, but his smothered rage 
might be perceived by the short vehement puffs of 
smoke emitted from his pipe, by which he might be 
tracked for miles, as he slowly floated out of shot and 
out of sight of Beam Island. In fact he never gave vent 
to his passion until he got fairly among the Highlands 
of the Hudson; when he let fly whole volleys of Dutch 
oaths, which are said to linger to this very day among 
the echoes of the Dunderberg, and to give particular 
effect to the thunderstorms in that neighborhood. 

William the Testy was shut up in his rural retreat of 
Dog's Misery, planning an expedition against the 
marauding people of Merryland, when Govert Locker- 
man burst in upon him, bearing in his hand the tattered 
flag of Orange. I will not pretend to describe the pas- 
sion of the little man when he heard of the outrage of 
Rensellaerstein. Suffice it to say, in the first transports 
of his fury, he turned Dog's Misery topsy-turvy; 
kicked every cur out of doors, and threw the cats out 
of the window; after which, his spleen being in some 
measure relieved, he went into a council of war with 
Govert Lockerman, the skipper, assisted by Antony 
Van Corlear, the trumpeter. 

The eyes of all New Amsterdam were now turned to 
see what would be the end of this direful feud between 
William the Testy and the patroon of Rensellaerwick; 
and some, observing the consultations of the governor 
with the skipper and the trumpeter, predicted warlike 
measures by sea and land. The wrath of William Kieft, 
however, though quick to rise, was quick to evaporate. 



The Chronicle of Beam Island 63 

He was a perfect brush-heap in a blaze, snapping and 
crackling for a time, and then ending in smoke. Like 
many other valiant potentates, his first thoughts were 
all for war, his sober second thoughts for diplomacy. 

Accordingly, Govert Lockerman was once more dis- 
patched up the river in the Company's yacht, the Goed 
Hoop, bearing Antony the Trumpeter as ambassador, 
to treat with the belligerent powers of Rensellaerstein. 
In the fulness of time the yacht arrived before Beam 
Island, and Antony the Trumpeter, mounting the poop, 
sounded a parley to the fortress. In a little while, the 
steeple-crowned hat of Nicholas Koorn, the wacht- 
meester, rose above the battlements, followed by his 
iron visage, and ultimately by his whole person, armed, 
as before, to the very teeth; while one by one a whole 
row of Helderbergers reared their round burly heads 
above the wall, and beside each pumpkin-head peered 
the end of a rusty musket. Nothing daunted by this 
formidable array, Antony Van Corlear drew forth and 
read with audible voice a missive from William the 
Testy, protesting against the usurpation of Beam 
Island, and ordering the garrison to quit the premises, 
bag and baggage, on pain of the vengeance of the po- 
tentate of the Manhattoes. 

In reply the wacht-meester applied the thumb of his 
right hand to the end of his nose, and the thumb of the 
left hand to the little finger of the right, and spreading 
each hand like a fan, made an aerial flourish with his 
fingers. Antony Van Corlear was sorely perplexed to 
understand this sign, which seemed to him something 
mysterious and masonic. Not liking to betray his 



64 Stones of the Hudson 

ignorance, he again read with a loud voice the missive 
of WilHam the Testy, and again Nicholas Koorn applied 
the thumb of his right hand to the end of his nose, and 
the thumb of his left hand to the little finger of the 
right, and repeated this kind of nasal weathercock. 
Antony Van Corlear now persuaded himself that this 
was some short-hand sign or symbol, current in di- 
plomacy, vv^hich, though unintelligible to a new diplomat 
like himself, would speak volumes to the experienced 
intellect of William the Testy; considering his embassy 
therefore at an end, he sounded his trumpet with great 
complacency, and set sail on his return down the river, 
every now and then practising this mysterious sign of 
the wacht-meester, to keep it accurately in mind. 

Arrived at New Amsterdam, he made a faithful 
report of his embassy to the governor, accompanied by 
a manual exhibition of the response of Nicholas Koorn. 
The governor was equally perplexed with his ambassa- 
dor. He was deeply versed in the mysteries of free- 
masonry; but they threw no light on the matter. He 
knew every variety of windmill and weathercock, but 
but was not a whit the wiser, as to the aerial sign in 
question. He had even dabbled in Egyptian hiero- 
glyphics, and the mystic symbols of the obelisks, but 
none furnished a key to the reply of Nicholas Koorn. He 
called a meeting of his council. Antony Van Corlear 
stood forth in the midst, and putting the thumb of his 
right hand to his nose, and the thumb of his left hand 
to the little finger of the right, he gave a faithful fac- 
simile of the portentous sign. Having a nose of un- 
usual dimensions, it was as if the reply had been put 



The Chronicle of Beam Island 65 

in capitals, but all in vain; the worthy burgomasters 
were equally perplexed with the governor. Each one 
put his thumb to the end of his nose, spread his fingers 
like a fan, imitated the motion of Antony Van Corlear, 
and then smoked on in dubious silence. Several times 
was Antony obliged to stand forth like a fugleman, and 
repeat the sign, and each time a circle of nasal weather- 
cocks might be seen in the council chamber. 

Perplexed in the extreme, William the Testy sent 
for all the soothsayers, and fortunetellers, and wise 
men of the Manhattoes, but none could interpret the 
mysterious reply of Nicholas Koorn. The council 
broke up in sore perplexity. The matter got abroad; 
Antony Van Corlear was stopped at every corner to 
repeat the signal to a knot of anxious newsmongers, 
each of whom departed with his thumb to his nose, and 
his fingers in the air, to carry the story home to his 
family. For several days all business was neglected in 
New Amsterdam; nothing was talked of but the diplo- 
matic mission of Antony the Trumpeter, nothing was 
to be seen but knots of politicians with their thumbs 
to their noses. In the meantime the fierce feud between 
William the Testy and Killian Van Rensellaer, which 
at first had menaced deadly warfare, gradually cooled 
oif, like many other war questions, in the prolonged 
delays of diplomacy. 

Still to this early affair of Rensellaerstein may be 
traced the remote origin of those windy wars in modern 
days which rage in the bowels of the Helderberg, and 
have well nigh shaken the great patroonship of the Van 
Rensellaers to its foundation; for we are told that the 



66 Stories of the Hudson 

bully boys of the Helderberg, who served under Nicho- 
las Koorn, the wacht-meester, carried back to their 
mountains the hieroglyphic sign which had so sorely 
puzzled Antony Van Corlear and the sages of the Man- 
hattoes; so that to the present day the thumb to the 
nose and the fingers in the air is apt to be the reply of 
the Helderbergers whenever called upon for long arrears 
of rent. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 



TN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that 
broad expansion of the river denominated by the an- 
cient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where 
they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there 
lies a small market-town or rural port, which, by some, 
is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and 
properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This 
name was given, we are told, in former days, by the 
good housewives of the adjacent country, from the 
inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, 
I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it for 
the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from 
this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little 
valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is 
one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small 
brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to 
lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, 
or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound 
that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees 

67 



68 Stones of the Hudson 

that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered 
Into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, 
and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke 
the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and 
reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should 
wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world 
and its distractions, and dream quietly away the rem-" 
nant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising 
than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has 
long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and 
its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys through- 
out all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy 
influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade 
the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was 
bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early 
days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, 
the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows 
there before the country was discovered by Master 
Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still con- 
tinues under the sway of some witching power, that 
holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing 
them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given 
to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances 
and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and 
hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighbor- 
hood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twi- 
light superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare 
oftener across the valley than in any other part of the 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 69 

country, and the nightmare with her whole nine fold, 
seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander in chief 
of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure 
on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be 
the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been 
carried away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle 
during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon 
seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom 
of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are 
not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the 
adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church 
at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most 
authentic historians of those parts, who have been 
careful in collecting and collating the floating facts con- 
cerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper 
having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides 
forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; 
and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes 
passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing 
to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the 
churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary super- 
stition, which has furnished materials for many a wild 
story in that region of shadows, and the spectre is 
known at all the country firesides by the name of the 
Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of 
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one 



70 Stories of the Hudson 

who resides there for a time. However wide awake 
they may have been before they entered that sleepy 
region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witch- 
ing influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative 
— to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
and there, embosomed in the great state of New York, 
that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, 
while the great torrent of migration and improvement, 
which is making such incessant changes in other parts 
of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
They are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and 
bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in 
their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the 
passing current. Though many years have elapsed 
since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet 
I question whether I should not still find the same 
trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered 
bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
years since, a worthy wight, of the name of Ichabod 
Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried," 
in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the 
children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecti- 
cut, a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth 
yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country 
schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inap- 




The bridge at Sleepy Hollow 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 71 

plicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly 
lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands 
that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might 
have served for shovels, and his whole frame most 
loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat 
at the top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and 
a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock, 
perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the 
wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill 
on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius 
of famine descending upon the earth, or some scare- 
crow eloped from a cornfield. 

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large 
room, rudely constructed of logs, the windows partly 
glazed and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. 
It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a 
withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set 
against the window shutters, so that, though a thief 
might get in with perfect ease, he would find some 
embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably 
borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the 
mystery of an eel-pot. The schoolhouse stood in a 
rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of 
a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a 
formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From 
hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning 
over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's 
day, like the hum of a beehive, interrupted now and 
then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the 
tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the 



72 Stones of the Hudson 

appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy 
loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth 
to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in 
mind the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the 
child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not 
spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in 
the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he admin- 
istered justice with discrimination rather than severity, 
taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying 
it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, 
that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
by with indulgence, but the claims of justice were satis- 
fied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked, 
and swelled, and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called "doing his duty by their 
parents," and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the 
smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank 
him for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys, and on holiday 
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good house- 
wives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cup- 
board. Indeed, it behoved him to keep on good terms 
with his pupils. ^ The revenue arising from his school was 
small, and would have been scarcely sufiicient to furnish 
him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 73 

though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; 
but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at 
the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. 
With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus 
going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his 
worldly effects tied up in a cotton handerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses 
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs 
of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as 
mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself 
both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers 
occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped 
to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to 
water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for 
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant 
dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in 
his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully 
gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of 
the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the 
youngest, and like the lion bold, which whilom so mag- 
nanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child 
on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole 
hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. 
It was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, 
to take his station in front of the church gallery with 
a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he 
completely carried away the palm from the parson. 



74 Stories of the Hudson 

Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of 
the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to 
be heard in that church, and which may even be heard 
half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill- 
pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. 
Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious 
way which is commonly denominated "by hook and 
by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably 
enough, and was thought, by all who understood noth- 
ing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully 
easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; be- 
ing considered a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, 
of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the 
rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning 
only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt 
to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm- 
house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of 
cakes, or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a 
silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was pecul- 
iarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. 
How he would figure among them in the churchyard 
between services on Sundays, gathering grapes for them 
from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; 
reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
tombstones, or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, 
along the banks of the adjacent mill pond; while the 
more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
envying his superior elegance and address. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 75 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was 
always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 
esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a 
perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New 
England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most 
firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 
and his powers of digesting it, were equally extra- 
ordinary; and both had been increased by his residence 
in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or 
monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his 
delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, 
to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering 
the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, 
and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the 
gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a 
mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way 
by swamp, and stream, and awful woodland, to the 
farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every 
sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his 
excited imagination; the moan of the whippoorwill* 
from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that 
harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech- 
owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds 

* The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at night. It 
receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those 
words. 



']S Stories of the Hudson 

frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which 
sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and 
then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would 
stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge block- 
head of a beetle came winging his blundering flight 
against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes, and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, 
or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to 
pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as 
they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roast- 
ing and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their 
marvellous tales of ghosts, and goblins, and haunted 
fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and 
haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horse- 
man, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by 
his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens 
and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which pre- 
vailed in the earlier times of Connecticut, and would 
frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets 
and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the 
world did absolutely turn round, and that they were 
half the time topsy-turvy. 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 77 

cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was 
all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and 
where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it 
was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows 
beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a 
snowy night ! — With what wistful look did he eye every 
trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields 
from some distant window. How often was he appalled 
by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted 
spectre, beset his very path. How often did he shrink 
with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the 
frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over his 
shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being 
tramping close behind him! — and how often was he 
thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, 
howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 
Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings. 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and 
though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been 
more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his 
lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all 
these evils, and he would have passed a pleasant life of 
it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path 
had not been crossed by a being that causes more per- 
plexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the 
whole race of witches put together, and that was — a 
woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one 
evening in each week, to receive his instruction in 



78 Stories of the Hudson 

psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and 
only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a 
blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge, 
ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's 
peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her 
beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a 
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her 
dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern 
fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore 
the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great- 
great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; 
the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal 
a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest 
foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 
the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempt- 
ing a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more espe- 
cially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. 
Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriv- 
ing, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it 
is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
boundaries of his own farm; but within those every- 
thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was 
satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued 
himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the 
style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated 
on the banks of the Hudson, In one of those green, shel- 
tered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so 
fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad 
branches over It, at the foot of which bubbled up a 
spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 79 

formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away 
through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled 
along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the 
farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for 
a church; every window and crevice of which seemed 
bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail 
was busily resounding within it from morning to night; 
swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the 
eaves, and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned 
up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads 
under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, 
were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of 
their pens, whence sallied forth, now and then, troops 
of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron 
of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, con- 
voying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys 
were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls 
fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with 
their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door 
strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a 
warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished 
wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, 
and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of 
wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 
his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every 



8o Stories of the Hudson 

roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, 
and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly 
put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a 
coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own 
gravy, and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug 
married couples, with a decent competency of onion 
sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future 
sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a 
turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its giz- 
zard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of 
savory sausages, and even bright chanticleer himself 
lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted 
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous 
spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as 
he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, 
which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, 
his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit 
these domains, and his imagination expanded with the 
idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and 
the money invested in immense tracts of wild land and 
shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy 
already realized his hopes, and presented to him the 
blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
mounted on the top of a wagon, loaded with household 
trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and 
he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt 
at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or 
the Lord knows where. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 8i 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, 
with high ridged, but lowly sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the 
low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the 
front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under 
this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of hus- 
bandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. 
Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and 
a great spinning wheel at one end, and a churn at the 
other, showed the various uses to which this important 
porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wonder- 
ing Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre 
of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here, 
rows of resplendent pewter ranged on a long dresser, 
dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of 
wool, ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey- 
woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and 
strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons 
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers, 
and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, 
where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany 
tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accom- 
panying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
of asparagus tops; mock oranges and conch-shells 
decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various colored 
birds' eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich 
egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner 
cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense 
treasures of old silver and well mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 



82 Stories of the Hudson 

regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, 
however, he had more real difficulties than generally 
fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom 
had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and 
such like easily conquered adversaries to contend with, 
and had to make his way merely through gates of iron 
and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep 
where the lady of his heart was confined, all which he 
achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the 
centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him 
her hand, as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the con- 
trary, had to win his way to the heart of a country 
coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, 
which were forever presenting new difficulties and im- 
pediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful 
adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic 
admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping 
a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but 
ready to fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roar- 
ing, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, 
according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van 
Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with 
his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad 
shouldered and double jointed, with short curly black 
hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, hav- 
ing a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his 
Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 83 

received the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he 
was universally known. He was famed for great knowl- 
edge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on 
horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost in all races 
and cock fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily 
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all 
disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his 
decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay 
or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a 
frolic, but had more mischief than ill-will in his com- 
position, and, with all his overbearing roughness, there 
was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. 
He had three or four boon companions, who regarded 
him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured 
the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment 
for miles round. In cold weather, he was distinguished 
by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail, 
and when the folks at a country gathering descried 
this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about 
among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for 
a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing 
along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and 
halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, 
starlted out of their sleep, would listen for a moment, 
till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then ex- 
claim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!" 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, 
admiration, and good will, and when any madcap prank 
or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook 
their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the 
bottom of it. 



84 Stories of the Hudson 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gal- 
lantries, and though his amorous toyings were some- 
thing like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, 
yet it was whispered that she did not altogether dis- 
courage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were 
signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no in- 
clination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that 
when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on 
a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was court- 
ing, or as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other 
suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into 
other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the com- 
petition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He 
had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and per- 
severance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like 
a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; though he bent, he 
never broke, and though he bowed beneath the slightest 
pressure, yet the moment it was away — jerk! he was 
as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness, for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, 
Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a 
quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of 
his character of singing master, he made frequent visits 
at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to appre- 
hend from the meddlesome interference of parents, 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 85 

which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. 
Bait Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved 
his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a 
reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have 
her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, 
had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and 
manage her poultry, for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, 
but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the 
busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spin- 
ning wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 
sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting 
the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean- 
time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter, 
by the side of the spring, under the great elm, or saunter- 
ing along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the 
lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of 
riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one 
vulnerable point, or door of access, while others have 
a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand 
different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain 
the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to 
maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle 
for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins 
a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some 
renown, but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 



86 Stories of the Hudson 

was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones, 
and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his ad- 
vances, the interests of the former evidently declined; 
his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sun- 
day nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between 
him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open war- 
fare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady 
according to the mode of those most concise and simple 
reasoners, the knight-errants of yore — by single com- 
bat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
might of his adversary, to enter the lists against him; 
he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would 
"double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of 
his own schoolhouse," and he was too wary to give 
him an opportunity. There was something extremely 
provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left 
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish 
practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the 
object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang 
of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful 
domains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping 
up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, 
in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window 
stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the 
poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the 
country held their meetings there. But what was still 
more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning 
him Into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 87 

scoundrel dog, whom he taught to whine In the most 
ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's 
to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation 
of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal after- 
noon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the 
lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns 
of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a 
ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of 
justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a 
constant terror to evil doers; while on a desk before 
him might be seen sundry contraband articles and pro- 
hibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle 
urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirli- 
gigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper 
gamecocks. Apparently, there had been some appal- 
ling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were 
all busily intent upon their books, or slily whispering 
behind them, with one eye kept upon the master, and 
a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the 
schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the ap- 
pearance of a negro, in towcloth jacket and trowsers, a 
round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mer- 
cury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half- 
broken colt, which he managed with a rope, by way of 
halter. He came clattering up to the school door with 
an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merrymaking, or 
"quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer 
Van Tassel's, and having delivered his message with 
that air of importance, and effort at fine language, 



88 Stories of the Hudson 

which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of 
the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen 
scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance 
and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their 
lessons, without stopping at trifles; those who were 
nimble, skipped over half with impunity, and those 
who were tardy, had a smart application now and then 
in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a 
tall word. Books were flung aside without being put 
away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches 
thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose 
an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a 
legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the 
green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in 
the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance 
before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he 
borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was 
domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of 
Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued 
forth, like a knight errant in quest of adventures. But 
it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, 
give some account of the looks and equipments of my 
hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a 
broken-down ploughhorse, that had outlived almost 
everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 89 

shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; 
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with 
burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and 
spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil 
in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, 
if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. 
He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, 
the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and 
had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into 
the animal; for, old and broken down as he looked, 
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any 
young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck 
out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping 
of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top 
of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to the horse's tail. Such was the appearance 
of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the 
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such 
an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad 
daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of 
abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown 
and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 



90 Stories of the Hudson 

been nipped by the frosts into briUiant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began 
to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of 
the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech 
and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail 
at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, 
capricious from the very profusion and variety around 
them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite 
game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous 
note, and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds, 
and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson 
crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage, 
and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow- 
tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers, and the 
blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat 
and white under clothes, screaming and chattering, 
nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, pretending to be 
on good terms with every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged 
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all 
sides he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in 
oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up 
in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld 
great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping 
from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise 
of cakes and hasty pudding, and the yellow pumpkins 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 91 

lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies 
to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant 
buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, 
and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his 
mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished 
with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled 
hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 
and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the 
sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of 
the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun 
gradually wheeled his broad disc down Into the west. 
The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undula- 
tion waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant 
mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, 
without a breath of air to move them. The horizon 
was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure 
apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the 
mid heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody 
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the 
river, giving greater depth to the dark grey and purple 
of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering In the dis- 
tance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 
hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflec- 
tion of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed 
as If the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was towards evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged 
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. 



92 Stones of the Hudson 

Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun 
coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and 
magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little 
dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, 
homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, 
and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom 
lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting 
where a straw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white 
frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, 
in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous 
brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the 
fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an 
eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout 
the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of 
the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, 
having come to the gathering on his favorite steed 
Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and 
mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. 
He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, 
given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in con- 
stant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken 
horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious 
display of red and white; but the ample charms of a 
genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous 
time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of 
various and almost indescribable kinds, known only 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 93 

to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the 
doughty doughnut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp 
and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, 
ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of 
cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies 
and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked 
beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved 
plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to 
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together 
with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- 
piggledy, pretty much as I have -enumerated them, 
with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds 
of vapor from the midst — ^Heaven bless the mark! 
I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my 
story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a 
hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every 
dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of 
almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old 
schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick 
any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare 
to call him comrade! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 



94 Stories of the Hudson 

with a face dilated with content and good humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable atten- 
tions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a 
shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, 
and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and help them- 
selves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old grey-headed negro, who had been the 
itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than 
half a century. His instrument was as old and battered 
as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on 
two or three strings, accompanying every movement 
of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost 
to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a 
fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about 
him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame 
in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would 
have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron 
of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He 
was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having 
gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the 
neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining 
black faces at every door and window, gazing with 
delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and 
showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How 
could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated 
and joyous .>* The lady of his heart was his partner in 
the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 95 

amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one 
corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over 
former times, and drawing out long stories about the 
war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speak- 
ing, was one of those highly favored places which 
abound with chronicle and great men. The British 
and American line had run near it during the war; it 
had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and in- 
fested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border 
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable 
each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becom- 
ing fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, 
to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Duifue Martling, a large blue- 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British 
frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast- 
work, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. 
And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, 
being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, 
in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master 
of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, 
insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, 
and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he w;as 
ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a 
little bent. There were several more that had been 
equally great in the field, not one of whom but was 



96 Stories of the Hudson 

persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bring- 
ing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and 
superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled 
retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting 
throng that forms the population of most of our country 
places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts 
in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time 
to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their 
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled 
away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn 
out at night to walk their rounds, they have no ac- 
quaintance left to call upon. This is, perhaps, the rea- 
son why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long- 
established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing 
to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies 
infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow 
people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were 
doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many 
dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourn- 
ing cries and wailings heard and seen about the great 
tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, 
and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention 
was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the 
dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 97 

on winter nights before a storm, having perished there 
in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, 
turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the 
headless horseman, who had been heard several times 
of late, patrolling the country; and. It was said, 
tethered his horse nightly among the graves In the 
churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made It a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. 
It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and 
lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed 
walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beam- 
ing through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope 
descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 
high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody 
dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black 
part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 
thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and 
the bridge Itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging 
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; 
but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was 
one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman; 
and the place where he was most frequently encountered. 
The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical dis- 
believer In ghosts, how he met the horseman returning 
from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to 



98 Stories of the Hudson 

get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the 
bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a 
skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang 
away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice 
marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light 
of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He 
affirmed that, on returning one night from the neigh- 
boring village of Sing-Sing, he had been overtaken by 
this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with 
him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, 
for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, 
just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian 
bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep into the mind of 
Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts 
from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added 
many marvellous events that had taken place in his 
native state of Connecticut, and fearful sights which 
he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their families in their wagons, and 
were heard for some time rattling along the hollow 
roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels 
mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and 
their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter 
of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 99 

fainter and fainter until they gradually died away — 
and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and 
deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to 
the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with 
the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the 
high road to success. What passed at this interview I 
will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Some- 
thing, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for 
he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, 
with an air quite desolate and chopfallen — Oh these 
women ! these women ! Could that girl have been play- 
ing off any of her coquettish tricks .f' — Was her encour- 
agement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to 
secure her conquest of his rival.? — Heaven only knows, 
not I! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with 
the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather 
than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right 
or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he 
had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed 
most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains 
of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel 
homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise 
above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so 
cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as 
himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its 
dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 



lOO Stories of the Hudson 

there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could 
even hear the barking of the watch-dog from the oppo- 
site shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint 
as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful 
companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn 
crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound 
far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills 
— but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No 
signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the 
melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural 
twang of a bullfrog, from a neighboring marsh, as if 
sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his 
bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his 
recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the 
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving 
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had 
never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 
approaching the very place where many of the scenes 
of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the 
road stood an enormous tulip tree, which towered like 
a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, 
and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, 
and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary 
trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising 
again into the air. It was connected with the tragical 
story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken 
prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the 
name of Major Andre's tree. The common people re- 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow loi 

garded It with a mixture of respect and superstition, 
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred 
namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights 
and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began 
to whistle: he thought his whistle was answered — it 
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought 
he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the 
tree — he paused and ceased whistling; but on looking 
more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the 
tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood 
laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chat- 
tered and his knees smote against the saddle: it was 
but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as 
they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the 
tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- 
wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. 
A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge 
over this stream. On that side of the road where the 
brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, 
matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous 
gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest 
trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate 
Andre was captured, and under the covert of those 
chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed 
who surprised him. This has ever since been considered 
a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the 
schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 



I02 Stories of the Hudson 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to 
thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but in- 
stead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made 
a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the 
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, 
jerked the reins on the other side and kicked lustily 
with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed 
started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the oppo- 
site side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder 
bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip 
and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gun- 
powder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, 
but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sudden- 
ness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his 
head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side 
of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In 
the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the 
brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, 
and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up 
in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring 
upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done.'' To turn and 
fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was 
there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which 
could ride upon the wings of the wind.'' Summoning 
up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stam- 
mering accents — "Who are you.^" He received no 
reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated 




Storm King at the northern gateway to the Highlands 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 103 

voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cud- 
gelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shut- 
ting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into 
a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm 
put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, 
stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the 
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown 
might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared 
to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on 
a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of 
molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gun- 
powder, who had now got over his fright and way- 
wardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure 
of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quick- 
ened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The 
stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal 
pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking 
to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart be- 
gan to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his 
psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof 
of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There 
was something in the moody and dogged silence of this 
pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and ap- 
palling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On 
mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of 
his fellow traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in 
height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror- 
struck, on perceiving that he was headless! — but his 



I04 Stones of the Hudson 

horror was still more increased, on observing that the 
head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was 
carried before him on the pommel of the saddle: his 
terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks 
and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden 
movement, to give his companion the slip — but the 
spectre started full jump with him. Away then they 
dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and 
sparks flashing, at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy gar- 
ments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank 
body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of 
his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns oif to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an oppo- 
site turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. 
This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by 
trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the 
bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells 
the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed 
church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as 
he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of 
the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under 
him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to 
hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save 
himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when 
the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled 
under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror 
of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 105 

for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for 
petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and 
(unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to main- 
tain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, some- 
times on another, and sometimes jolted on the high 
ridge of his horse's back bone, with a violence that he 
verily feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The waver- 
ing reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook 
told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls 
of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. 
He recollected the place where Brom Bones' ghostly 
competitor had disappeared. "If I can but reach that 
bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he 
heard the black steed panting and blowing close be- 
hind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. 
Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder 
sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resound- 
ing planks; he gained the opposite side, and now Icha- 
bod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should 
vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brim- 
stone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrup, 
and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Icha- 
bod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous 
crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider passed 
by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without 
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 



io6 Stories of the Hudson 

cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did 
not make his appearance at breakfast — dinner hour 
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the 
schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook, but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now 
began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor 
Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his 
traces. In one part of the road leading to the church 
was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks 
of horses' hoofs deeply dented In the road, and evidently 
at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond 
which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where 
the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the 
unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 
tained all his wordly effects. They consisted of two 
shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair or two 
of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small- 
clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes, full of 
dog's ears, and a broken pitch pipe. As to the books 
and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to 
the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History 
of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of 
dreams and fortune-telling, in which last was a sheet 
of foolscap, much scribbled and blotted, in several 
fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of 
the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 107 

poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by 
Hans Van Ripper, who, from that time forward, de- 
termined to send his children no more to school, observ- 
ing, that he never knew any good come of this same 
reading and writing. Whatever money the school- 
master possessed, and he had received his quarter's 
pay but a day or two before, he must have had about 
his person at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at 
the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers 
and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the 
bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had 
been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a 
whole budget of others, were called to mind, and when 
they had diligently considered them all, and compared 
them with the symptoms of the present case, they 
shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that 
Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. 
As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody 
troubled his head any more about him; the school was 
removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and an- 
other pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still 
alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through 
fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in 
mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by 
the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a dis- 
tant part of the country, had kept school and studied 



io8 Stories of the Hudson 

law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, 
turned poUtician, electioneered, written for the news- 
papers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten 
Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who shortly after his 
rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina 
in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly 
knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, 
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of 
the pumpkin, which led some to suspect that he knew 
more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that 
Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means, 
and it is a favorite story often told about the neighbor- 
hood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became 
more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that 
may be the reason why the road has been altered of 
late years, so as to approach the church by the border 
of the mill pond. The schoolhouse being deserted, 
soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by 
the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue, and the plough- 
boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has 
often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a mel- 
ancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT 



FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given almost in the precise words in which 
I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of 
Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most 
illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentle- 
manly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous 
face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — he made 
such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, 
there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two 
or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of 
the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, 
with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe 
face throughout, now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, 
and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his 
mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon 
good grounds — when they have reason and law on their side. When 
the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was 
restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking 
the other a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage 
motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
moral of the story, and what it went to prove.? 

The story teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, 
as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended most 
logically to prove — 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it. 



no Stones of the Hudson 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he observed, that 
all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the 
extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his 
doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story teller, "as to that matter, I don't 
believe one half of it myself." 



DOLPH HEYLIGER 



TN the early time of the province of New York, while 
it groaned under the tyranny of the English gov- 
ernor, Lord Cornbury, who carried his cruelties towards 
the Dutch inhabitants so far as to allow no dominie, 
or schoolmaster, to officiate in their language, without 
his special license; about this time, there lived in the 
jolly little old city of the Manhattoes, a kind motherly 
dame, known by the name of Dame Heyliger. She 
was the widow of a Dutch sea captain, who died sud- 
denly of a fever, in consequence of working too hard, 
and eating too heartily, at the time when all the in- 
habitants turned out in a panic, to fortify the place 
against the invasion of a small French privateer.* He 
left her with very little money, and one infant son, the 
only survivor of several children. The good woman 
had need of much management to make both ends meet, 
and keep up a decent appearance. However, as her 
husband had fallen a victim to his zeal for the public 
safety, it was universally agreed that "something ought 
to be done for the widow;" and on the hopes of this 
"something" she lived tolerably for some years; in the 
meantime everybody pitied and spoke well of her, and 
that helped along. 

She lived in a small house, in a small street, called 

*i7os 



112 Stories of the Hudson 

Garden Street, very probably from a garden which 
may have flourished there some time or other. As her 
necessities every year grew greater, and the talk of the 
public about doing "something for her" grew less, she 
had to cast about for some mode of doing something 
for herself, by way of helping out her slender means, 
and maintaining her independence, of which she was 
somewhat tenacious. 

Living in a mercantile town, she had caught some- 
thing of the spirit, and determined to venture a little 
in the great lottery of commerce. On a sudden, there- 
fore, to the great surprise of the street, there appeared 
at her window a grand array of gingerbread kings and 
queens, with their arms stuck a-kimbo, after the invari- 
able royal manner. There were also several broken 
tumblers, some filled with sugarplums, some with 
marbles; there were, moreover, cakes of various kinds, 
and barley sugar, and Holland dolls, and wooden 
horses, with here and there gilt-covered picture-books, 
and now and then a skein of thread, or a dangling pound 
of candles. At the door of the house sat the good old 
dame's cat, a decent demure-looking personage, who 
seemed to scan everybody that passed, to criticise their 
dress, and now and then to stretch her neck, and to 
look out with sudden curiosity, to see what was going 
on at the other end of the street; but if by chance any 
idle vagabond dog came by, and offered to be uncivil 
— hoity-toity! — how she would bristle up, and growl, 
and spit, and strike out her paws! she was as indignant 
as ever was an ancient and ugly spinster on the approach 
of some graceless profligate. 



Dolph Heyliger 113 

But though the good woman had to come down to 
those humble means of subsistence, yet she still kept 
up a feeling of family pride, being descended from the 
Vanderspiegels, of Amsterdam; and she had the family 
arms painted and framed, and hung over her mantel- 
piece. She was, in truth, much respected by all the 
poorer people of the place; her house was quite a resort 
of the old wives of the neighborhood ; they would drop 
in there of a winter's afternoon, as she sat knitting on 
one side of her fireplace, her cat purring on the other, 
and the teakettle singing before it, and they would 
gossip with her until late in the evening. There was 
always an armchair for Peter de Groodt, sometimes 
called Long Peter, and sometimes Peter Longlegs, the 
clerk and sexton of the little Lutheran church, who was 
her great crony, and, indeed, the oracle of her fireside. 
Nay, the dominie himself did not disdain, now and 
then, to step in, converse about the state of her mind, 
and take a glass of her special good cherry brandy. 
Indeed, he never failed to call on New Year's Day, and 
wish her a happy New Year; and the good dame, who 
was a little vain on some points, always piqued herself 
on giving him as large a cake as any one in town. 

I have said that she had one son. He was the child 
of her old age; but could hardly be called the comfort, 
for, of all unlucky urchins, Dolph Heyliger was the 
most mischievous. Not that the whipster was really 
vicious, he was only full of fun and frolic, and had that 
daring, gamesome spirit, which is extolled in a rich 
man's child, but execrated in a poor man's. He was 
continually getting into scrapes; his mother was in- 



114 Stories of the Hudson 

cessantly harassed with complaints of some waggish 
pranks which he had played off; bills were sent in for 
windows that he had broken; in a word, he had not 
reached his fourteenth year before he was pronounced, 
by all the neighborhood, to be a "wicked dog, the 
wickedest dog in the street!" Nay, one old gentleman, 
in a claret-colored coat, with a thin red face, and ferret 
eyes, went so far as to assure Dame Heyliger that her 
son would, one day or other, come to the gallows. 

Yet, notwithstanding all this, the poor soul loved her 
boy. It seemed as though she loved him the better the 
worse he behaved, and that he grew more in her favor, 
the more he grew out of favor with the world. Mothers 
are foolish, fond-hearted beings; there's no reasoning 
them out of their dotage; and, indeed, this poor woman's 
child was all that was left to love her in this world, so we 
must not think it hard that she turned a deaf ear to her 
good friends, who sought to prove to her that Dolph 
would come to a halter. 

To do the varlet justice, too, he was strongly attached 
to his parent. He would not willingly have given her 
pain on any account, and when he had been doing 
wrong, it was but for him to catch his poor mother's 
eye fixed wistfully and sorrowfully upon him, to fill his 
heart with bitterness and contrition. But he was a 
heedless youngster, and could not, for the life of him, 
resist any new temptation to fun and mischief. Though 
quick at his learning, whenever he could be brought to 
apply himself, he was always prone to be led away by 
idle company, and would play truant to hunt after 
birds' nests, to rob orchards, or to swim in the Hudson. 



Dolph Heyliger 115 

In this way he grew up a tall, lubberly boy, and his 
mother began to be greatly perplexed what to do with 
him, or how to put him in a way to do for himself; for 
he had acquired such an unlucky reputation, that no 
one seemed willing to employ him. 

Many were the consultations that she held with Peter 
de Groodt, the clerk and sexton, who was her prime 
counsellor. Peter was as much perplexed as herself, 
for he had no great opinion of the boy, and thought he 
would never come to good. He at one time advised her 
to send him to sea — a piece of advice only given in the 
most desperate cases; but Dame Heyliger would not 
listen to such an idea; she could not think of letting 
Dolph go out of her sight. She was sitting one day 
knitting by the fireside, in great perplexity, when the 
sexton entered with an air of unusual vivacity and 
briskness. He had just come from a funeral. It had 
been that of a boy of Dolph's years, who had been 
apprentice to a famous German doctor, and had died 
of a consumption. It is true, there had been a whisper 
that the deceased had been brought to his end by being 
made the subject of the doctor's experiments, on which 
he was apt to try the effects of a new compound, or a 
quieting draught. This, however, it is likely was a 
mere scandal; at any rate, Peter de Groodt did not 
think it worth mentioning, though, had we time to 
philosophize, it would be a curious matter for specula- 
tion, why a doctor's family is apt to be so lean and 
cadaverous, and a butcher's so jolly and rubicund. 

Peter de Groodt, as I said before, entered the house 
of Dame Heyliger with unusual alacrity. A bright idea 



ii6 ' Stories of the Hudson 

had popped into his head at the funeral, over which he 
had chuckled as he shovelled the earth into the grave 
of the doctor's disciple. It had occurred to him, that, 
as the situation of the deceased was vacant at the 
doctor's, it would be the very place for Dolph. The 
boy had parts, and could pound a pestle, and run an 
errand with any boy in the town, and what more was 
wanted in a student? 

The suggestion of the sage Peter was a vision of glory 
to the mother. She had already seen Dolph, in her 
mind's eye, with a cane at his nose, a knocker at his 
door, and an M.D. at the end of his name — one of the 
established dignitaries of the town. 

The matter once undertaken, was soon effected: the 
sexton had some influence with the doctor, they having 
had much dealing together in the way of their separate 
professions; and the very next morning he called and 
conducted the urchin, clad in his Sunday clothes, to 
undergo the inspection of Dr. Karl Lodovick Knip- 
perhausen. 

They found the doctor seated in an elbow chair, in 
one corner of his study, or laboratory, with a large 
volume, in German print, before him. He was a short 
fat man, with a dark square face, rendered more dark 
by a black velvet cap. He had a little knobbed nose, 
not unlike the ace of spades, with a pair of spectacles 
gleaming on each side of his dusky countenance, like a 
couple of bow-windows. 

Dolph felt struck with awe on entering into the pres- 
ence of this learned man; and gazed about him with 
boyish wonder at the furniture of this chamber of 




The present Battery 



Dolph Heyliger 117 

knowledge, which appeared to him almost as the den 
of a magician. In the centre stood a claw-footed table, 
with pestle and mortar, phials and gallipots, and a pair 
of small burnished scales. At one end was a heavy 
clothes-press, turned into a receptacle for drugs and 
compounds; against which hung the doctor's hat and 
cloak, and gold-headed cane, and on the top grinned a 
human skull. Along the mantelpiece were glass vessels, 
in which were snakes and lizards, and a human foetus 
preserved in spirits. A closet, the doors of which were 
taken off, contained three whole shelves of books, and 
some too of mighty folio dimensions; a collection, the 
like of which Dolph had never before beheld. As, how- 
ever, the library did not take up the whole of the closet, 
the doctor's thrifty housekeeper had occupied the rest 
with pots of pickles and preserves; and had hung about 
the room, among awful implements of the healing art, 
strings of red peppers and corpulent cucumbers, care- 
fully preserved for seed. 

Peter de Groodt and his protege were received with 
great gravity and stateliness by the doctor, who was 
a very wise, dignified little man, and never smiled. 
He surveyed Dolph from head to foot, above, and under, 
and through his spectacles, and the poor lad's heart 
quailed as these great glasses glared on him like two 
full moons. The doctor heard all that Peter de Groodt 
had to say in favor of the youthful candidate; and 
then wetting his thumb with the end of his tongue, he 
began deliberately to turn over page after page of the 
great black volume before him. At length, after many 
hums and haws, and strokings of the chin, and all that 



Ii8 Stories of the Hudson 

hesitation and deHberation with which a wise man pro- 
ceeds to do what he intended to do from the very first, 
the doctor agreed to take the lad as a disciple; to give 
him bed, board, and clothing, and to instruct him in the 
healing art; in return for which he was to have his 
services until his twenty-first year. 

Behold, then, our hero, all at once transformed from 
an unlucky urchin, running wild about the streets, to 
a student of medicine, diligently pounding a pestle, 
under the auspices of the learned Doctor Karl Lodovick 
Knipperhausen. It was a happy transition for his fond 
old mother. She was delighted with the idea of her 
boy's being brought up worthy of his ancestors; and 
anticipated the day when he would be able to hold 
up his head with the lawyer, that lived in the large 
house opposite; or, peradventure, with the dominie 
himself. 

Doctor Knipperhausen was a native of the Palatin- 
ate in Germany; whence, in company with many of 
his countrymen, he had taken refuge in England, on 
account of religious persecution. He was one of nearly 
three thousand Palatines, who came over from Eng- 
land in 1 710, under the protection of Governor Hunter. 
Where the doctor had studied, how he had acquired 
his medical knowledge, and where he had received his 
diploma, it is hard at present to say, for nobody knew 
at the time; yet it is certain that his profound skill and 
abstruse knowledge were the talk and wonder of the 
common people, far and near. 

His practice was totally different from that of any 
other physician; consisting in mysterious compounds, 



Dolph Heyliger 119 

known only to himself, in the preparing and adminis- 
tering of which, it was said, he always consulted the 
stars. So high an opinion was entertained of his skill, 
particularly by the German and Dutch inhabitants, 
that they always resorted to him in desperate cases. 
He was one of those infallible doctors, that are always 
effecting sudden and surprising cures, when the patient 
has been given up by all the regular physicians; unless, 
as is shrewdly observed, the case has been left too long 
before it was put into their hands. The doctor's library 
was the talk and marvel of the neighborhood, I might 
almost say of the entire burgh. The good people looked 
with reverence at a man who had read three whole 
shelves full of books, and some of them too as large 
as a family Bible. There were many disputes among 
the members of the little Lutheran church, as to 
which was the wisest man, the doctor or the dominie. 
Some of his admirers even went so far as to say, that 
he knew more than the governor himself — in a 
word, it was thought that there was no end to his 
knowledge ! 

No sooner was Dolph received into the doctor's 
family, than he was put in possession of the lodging 
of his predecessor. It was a garret room of a steep- 
roofed Dutch house, where the rain pattered on the 
shingles, and the lightning gleamed, and the wind piped 
through the crannies in stormy weather; and where 
whole troops of hungry rats, like Don Cossacks, gal- 
loped about, in defiance of traps and ratsbane. 

He was soon up to his ears in medical studies, being 
employed, morning, noon, and night, in rolling pills, 



120 Stories of the Hudson 

filtering tinctures, or pounding the pestle and mortar 
in one corner of the laboratory; while the doctor would 
take his seat in another corner, when he had nothing 
else to do, or expected visitors, and arrayed in his 
morning-gown and velvet cap, would pore over the 
contents of some folio volume. It is true, that the 
regular thumping of Dolph's pestle, or, perhaps, the 
drowsy buzzing of the summer flies, would now and 
then lull the little man into a slumber; but then his 
spectacles were always wide awake, and studiously 
regarding the book. 

There was another personage in the house, however, 
to whom Dolph was obliged to pay allegiance. Though 
a bachelor, and a man of such great dignity and im- 
portance, the doctor was, like many other wise men, 
subject to petticoat government. He was completely 
under the sway of his housekeeper; a spare, busy, 
fretting housewife, in a little, round, quilted German 
cap, with a huge bunch of keys jingling at the girdle 
of an exceedingly long waist. Frau Use (or Frow Ilsy 
as It was pronounced) had accompanied him in his 
various migrations from Germany to England, and 
from England to the province; managing his estab- 
lishment and himself too: ruling him, it is true, with a 
gentle hand, but carrying a high hand with all the 
world besides. How she had acquired such ascendency 
I do not pretend to say. People, it is true, did talk — 
but have not people been prone to talk ever since the 
world began .? Who can tell how women generally con- 
trive to get the upper hand.^ A husband, it Is true, 
may now and then be master in his own house; but 



Dolph Heyliger 121 

who ever knew a bachelor that was not managed by 
his housekeeper? 

Indeed, Frau Ilsy's power was not confined to the 
doctor's household. She was one of those prying gossips 
who know every one's business better than they do 
themselves; and whose all-seeing eyes, and all-telling 
tongues, are terrors throughout a neighborhood. 

Nothing of any moment transpired in the world of 
scandal of this little burgh, but it was known to Frau 
Ilsy. She had her crew of cronies, that were perpetu- 
ally hurrying to her little parlor with some precious bit 
of news; nay, she would sometimes discuss a whole 
volume of secret history, as she held the street door 
ajar, and gossiped with one of these garrulous cronies 
in the very teeth of a December blast. 

Between the doctor and the housekeeper it may 
easily be supposed that Dolph had a busy life of it. 
As Frau Ilsy kept the keys, and literally ruled the roost, 
it was starvation to offend her, though he found the 
study of her temper more perplexing even than that of 
medicine. When not busy in the laboratory, she kept 
him running hither and thither on her errands; and on 
Sundays he was obliged to accompany her to and from 
church, and carry her Bible. Many a time has the 
poor varlet stood shivering and blowing his fingers, or 
holding his frostbitten nose, in the churchyard, while 
Ilsy and her cronies were huddled together, wagging 
their heads, and tearing some unlucky character to 
pieces. 

With all his advantages, however, Dolph made very 
slow progress in his art. This was no fault of the 



122 Stories of the Hudson 

doctor's, certainly, for he took unwearied pains with 
the lad, keeping him close to the pestle and mortar, or 
on the trot about town with phials and pill-boxes; and 
if he ever flagged in his industry, which he was rather 
apt to do, the doctor would fly into a passion, and ask 
him If he ever expected to learn his profession, unless 
he applied himself closer to the study. The fact is, he 
still retained the fondness for sport and mischief that 
had marked his childhood; the habit, indeed, had 
strengthened with his years, and gained force from 
being thwarted and constrained. He daily grew more 
and more untractable, and lost favor in the eyes both 
of the doctor and the housekeeper. 

In the meantime the doctor went on, waxing wealthy 
and renowned. He was famous for his skill in manag- 
ing cases not laid down in the books. He had cured 
several old women and young girls of witchcraft; a 
terrible complaint, and nearly as prevalent in the prov- 
ince in those days as hydrophobia is at present. He 
had even restored one strapping country girl to perfect 
health, who had gone so far as to vomit crooked pins 
and needles; which is considered a desperate stage of 
the malady. It was whispered, also, that he was pos- 
sessed of the art of preparing love powders; and many 
applications had he in consequence from lovesick 
patients of both sexes. But all these cases formed the 
mysterious part of his practice, in which, according to 
the cant phrase, "secrecy and honor might be depended 
on." Dolph, therefore, was obliged to turn out of the 
study whenever such consultations occurred, though 
it is said he learnt more of the secrets of the art at 



Dolph Heyliger 123 

the keyhole, than by all the rest of his studies put 
together. 

As the doctor increased in wealth, he began to extend 
his possessions, and to look forward, like other great 
men, to the time when he should retire to the repose of 
a countryseat. For this purpose he had purchased a 
farm, or, as the Dutch settlers called it, a bozverie, a few 
miles from town. It had been the residence of a wealthy 
family, that had returned some time since to Holland. 
A large mansion house stood in the centre of it, very 
much out of repair, and which, in consequence of cer- 
tain reports, had received the appellation of the Haunted 
House. Either from these reports, or from its actual 
dreariness, the doctor found it impossible to get a 
tenant; and, that the place might not fall to ruin be- 
fore he could reside in it himself, he placed a country 
boor, with his family, in one wing, with the privilege 
of cultivating the farm on shares. 

The doctor now felt all the dignity of a landholder 
rising within him. He had a little of the German pride 
of territory in his composition, and almost looked upon 
himself as owner of a principality. He began to com- 
plain of the fatigue of business; and was fond of riding 
out "to look at his estate." His little expeditions to 
his lands were attended with a bustle and parade that 
created a sensation throughout the neighborhood. His 
wall-eyed horse stood, stamping and whisking off the 
flies, for a full hour before the house. Then the doctor's 
saddlebags would be brought out and adjusted; then, 
after a little while, his cloak would be rolled up and 
strapped to the saddle; then his umbrella would be 



124 Stones of the Hudson 

buckled to the cloak; while, in the meantime, a group 
of ragged boys, that observant class of beings, would 
gather before the door. At length the doctor would 
issue forth, in a pair of jack boots that reached above 
his knees, and a cocked hat flapped down in front. As 
he was a short, fat man, he took some time to mount 
into the saddle; and when there, he took some time to 
have the saddle and stirrups properly adjusted, enjoy- 
ing the wonder and admiration of the urchin crowd. 
Even after he had set off, he would pause in the middle 
of the street, or trot back two or three times to give 
some parting orders; which were answered by the 
housekeeper from the door, or Dolph from the study, 
or the black cook from the cellar, or the chambermaid 
from the garret window; and there were generally 
some last words bawled after him, just as he was turn- 
ing the corner. 

The whole neighborhood would be aroused by this 
pomp and circumstance. The cobbler would leave his 
last; the barber would thrust out his frizzed head, with 
a comb sticking in it; a knot would collect at the gro- 
cer's door, and the word would be buzzed from one end 
of the street to the other, "The doctor's riding out to 
his countryseat." 

These were golden moments for Dolph. No sooner 
was the doctor out of sight, than pestle and mortar 
were abandoned; the laboratory was left to take care 
of itself, and the student was off on some madcap 
frolic. 

Indeed, it must be confessed, the youngster, as he 
grew up, seemed in a fair way to fulfil the prediction of 




PollopoFs Island 



Dolph Heyliger 125 

the old claret-colored gentleman. He was the ring- 
leader of all holiday sports and midnight gambols; 
ready for all kinds of mischievous pranks and hare- 
brained adventures. 

There is nothing so troublesome as a hero on a small 
scale, or, rather, a hero in a small town. Dolph soon 
became the abhorrence of all drowsy, housekeeping old 
citizens, who hated noise, and had no relish for waggery. 
The good dames, too, considered him as little better 
than a reprobate, gathered their daughters under their 
wings whenever he approached, and pointed him out 
as a warning to their sons. No one seemed to hold him 
in much regard, excepting the wild striplings of the 
place, who were captivated by his open-hearted, daring 
manners, and the negroes, who always look upon every 
idle, do-nothing youngster as a kind of gentleman. 
Even the good Peter de Groodt, who had considered 
himself a kind of patron of the lad, began to despair of 
him, and would shake his head dubiously, as he listened 
to a long complaint from the housekeeper, and sipped 
a glass of her raspberry brandy. 

Still his mother was not to be wearied out of her 
affection by all the waywardness of her boy, nor dis- 
heartened by the stories of his misdeeds, with which her 
good friends were continually regaling her. She had, 
it is true, very little of the pleasure which rich people 
enjoy, in always hearing their children praised; but 
she considered all this ill will as a kind of persecution 
which he suffered, and she liked him better on that 
account. She saw him growing up a fine, tall, good 
looking youngster, and she looked at him with the 



126 Stories of the Hudson 

secret pride of a mother's heart. It was her great de- 
sire that Dolph should appear like a gentleman, and 
all the money she could save went towards helping out 
his pocket and his wardrobe. She would look out of 
the window after him, as he sallied forth in his best 
array, and her heart would yearn with delight, and 
once, when Peter de Groodt, struck with the young- 
ster's gallant appearance on a bright Sunday morning, 
observed, "Well, after all, Dolph does grow a comely 
fellow!" the tear of pride started into the mother's eye; 
"Ah, neighbor, neighbor!" exclaimed she, "they may 
say what they please, poor Dolph will yet hold up his 
head with the best of them." 

Dolph Heyliger had now nearly attained his one-and- 
twentieth year, and the term of his medical studies was 
just expiring; yet it must be confessed that he knew 
little more of the profession than when he first entered 
the doctor's door. This, however, could not be from 
any want of quickness of parts, for he showed amazing 
aptness in mastering other branches of knowledge, 
which he could only have studied at intervals. He 
was, for instance, a sure marksman, and won all the 
geese and turkeys at Christmas holidays. He was a 
bold rider; he was famous for leaping and wrestling; 
he played tolerably on the fiddle; could swim like a 
fish, and was the best hand in the whole place at fives 
or ninepins. 

All these accomplishments, however, procured him no 
favor in the eyes of the doctor, who grew more and more 
crabbed and intolerant the nearer the end of Dolph's 
apprenticeship approached. Frau Ilsy, too, was for- 



Dolph Heyliger 127 

ever finding some occasion to raise a windy tempest 
about his ears; and seldom encountered him about the 
house, without a clatter of the tongue; so that at 
length the jingling of her keys, as she approached, was 
to Dolph like the ringing of the prompter's bell, that 
gives notice of a theatrical thunderstorm. Nothing 
but the infinite good humor of the heedless youngster 
enabled him to bear all this domestic tyranny without 
open rebellion. It was evident that the doctor and his 
housekeeper were preparing to beat the poor youth out 
of the nest, the moment his term should have expired, 
a shorthand mode which the doctor had of providing 
for useless disciples. 

Indeed the little man had been rendered more than 
usually irritable lately, in consequence of various cares 
and vexations which his country estate had brought 
upon him. The doctor had been repeatedly annoyed 
by the rumors and tales which prevailed concerning the 
old mansion, and found it difficult to prevail even upon 
the countryman and his family to remain there rent 
free. Every time he rode out to the farm he was teased 
by some fresh complaint of strange noises and fearful 
sights, with which the tenants were disturbed at night; 
and the doctor would come home fretting and fuming, 
and vent his spleen upon the whole household. It was 
indeed a sore grievance, that affected him both in pride 
and purse. He was threatened with an absolute loss 
of the profits of his property, and then, what a blow to 
his territorial consequence, to be the landlord of a 
haunted house. 

It was observed, however, that with all his vexation. 



128 Stories of the Hudson 

the doctor never proposed to sleep in the house himself; 
nay, he could never be prevailed upon to remain on the 
premises after dark, but made the best of his way for 
town as soon as the bats began to flit about in the twi- 
light. The fact was, the doctor had a secret belief in 
ghosts, having passed the early part of his life in a 
country where they particularly abound; and, indeed, 
the story went that, when a boy, he had once seen the 
devil upon the Hartz mountains in Germany. 

At length the doctor's vexations on this head were 
brought to a crisis. One morning, as he sat dozing over 
a volume in his study, he was suddenly startled from 
his slumbers by the bustling in of the housekeeper. _y 

"Here's a fine to-do!" cried she, as she entered the 
room, "Here's Claus Hopper come in, bag and bag- 
gage, from the farm, and swears he'll have nothing 
more to do with it. The whole family have been fright- 
ened out of their wits, for there's such racketing and 
rummaging about the old house, that they can't sleep 
quiet in their beds!" 

"Donner und blitzen!" cried the doctor, impatiently. 
"Will they never have done chattering about that house? 
What a pack of fools, to let a few rats and mice frighten 
them out of good quarters." 

"Nay, nay," said the housekeeper, wagging her head 
knowingly, and piqued at having a good ghost story 
doubted, "there's more in it than rats and mice. All 
the neighborhood talks about the house; and then such 
sights as have been seen in it. Peter de Groodt tells 
me that the family that sold you the house, and went 
to Holland, dropped several strange hints about it, and 



Dolph Heyliger 129 

said, 'they wished you joy of your bargain;' and you 
know yourself there's no getting any family to live 
in it." 

"Peter de Groodt's a ninny — an old woman," said 
the doctor, peevishly; "I'll warrant he's been filling 
these people's heads full of stories. It's just like his 
nonsense about the ghost that haunted the church 
belfry, as an excuse for not ringing the bell that cold 
night when Harmanus Brinkerhoff's house was on fire. 
Send Claus to me." 

Claus Hopper now made his appearance: a simple 
country lout, full of awe at finding himself in the very 
study of Dr. Knipperhausen, and too much embarrassed 
to enter into much detail of the matters that had caused 
his alarm. He stood twirling his hat in one hand, rest- 
ing sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, look- 
ing occasionally at the doctor, and now and then steal- 
ing a fearful glance at the death's head that seemed 
ogling him from the top of the clothes-press. 

The doctor tried every means to persuade him to 
return to the farm, but all in vain; he maintained a 
dogged determination on the subject; and at the close 
of every argument or solicitation would make the same 
brief, inflexible reply, "Ich kan nicht, mynheer." The 
doctor was a "little pot, and soon hot;" his patience 
was exhausted by these continual vexations about his 
estate. The stubborn refusal of Claus Hopper seemed 
to him like flat rebellion; his temper suddenly boiled 
over, and Claus was glad to make a rapid retreat to 
escape scalding. 

When the bumpkin got to the housekeeper's room, 



130 Stones of the Hudson 

he found Peter de Groodt, and several other true be- 
lievers, ready to receive him. Here he indemnified 
himself for the restraint he had suffered in the study, 
and opened a budget of stories about the haunted house 
that astonished all his hearers. The housekeeper be- 
lieved them all, if it was only to spite the doctor for 
having received her intelligence so uncourteously. 
Peter de Groodt matched them with many a wonderful 
legend of the times of the Dutch dynasty, and of the 
Devil's Stepping-stones; and of the pirate hanged at 
Gibbet Island, that continued to swing there at night 
long after the gallows was taken down; and of the 
ghost of the unfortunate Governor Leisler, hanged 
for treason, which haunted the old fort and the gov- 
ernment-house. The gossiping knot dispersed, each 
charged with direful intelligence. The sexton dis- 
burdened himself at a vestry meeting that was held 
that very day, and the black cook forsook her kitchen, 
and spent half the day at the street pump, that gossip- 
ing-place of servants, dealing forth the news to all that 
came for water. In a little time the whole town was in 
a buzz with tales about the haunted house. Some said 
that Glaus Hopper had seen the devil, while others 
hinted that the house was haunted by the ghosts of 
some of the patients whom the doctor had physicked 
out of the world, and that was the reason why he did 
not venture to live in it himself. 

All this put the little doctor in a terrible fume. He 
threatened vengeance on any one who should affect 
the value of his property by exciting popular prejudices. 
He complained loudly of thus being in a manner dis- 



Dolph Heyliger 131 

possessed of his territories by mere bugbears; but he 
secretly determined to have the house exorcised by the 
dominie. Great was his relief, therefore, when, in the 
midst of his perplexities, Dolph stepped forward and 
undertook to garrison the haunted house. The young- 
ster had been listening to all the stories of Claus Hopper 
and Peter de Groodt: he was fond of adventure, he 
loved the marvellous, and his imagination had become 
quite excited by these tales of wonder. Besides, he had 
led such an uncomfortable life at the doctor's, being 
subjected to the intolerable thraldom of early hours, 
that he was delighted at the prospect of having a house 
to himself, even though it should be a haunted one. 
His offer was eagerly accepted, and it was determined 
he should mount guard that very night. His only 
stipulation was, that the enterprise should be kept 
secret from his mother; for he knew the poor soul would 
not sleep a wink if she knew her son was waging war 
with the powers of darkness. 

When night came on he set out on this perilous ex- 
pedition. The old black cook, his only friend in the 
household, had provided him with a little mess for 
supper, and a rushlight; and she tied round his neck 
an amulet, given her by an African conjurer, as a charm 
against evil spirits. Dolph was escorted on his way by 
the doctor and Peter de Groodt, who had agreed to 
accompany him to the house, and see him safe lodged. 
The night was overcast, and it was very dark when they 
arrived at the grounds which surrounded the mansion. 
The sexton led the way with a lantern. As they walked 
along the avenue of acacias, the fitful light, catching 



132 Stories of the Hudson 

from bush to bush, and tree to tree, often startled the 
doughty Peter, and made him fall back upon his fol- 
lowers; and the doctor grappled still closer hold of 
Dolph's arm, observing that the ground was very slip- 
pery and uneven. At one time they were nearly put 
to total rout by a bat, which came flitting about the 
lantern; and the notes of the insects from the trees, 
and the frogs from a neighboring pond, formed a most 
drowsy and doleful concert. 

The front door of the mansion opened with a grating 
sound, that made the doctor turn pale. They entered 
a tolerably large hall, such as is common in American 
country-houses, and which serves for a sitting room in 
warm weather. From this they went up a wide stair- 
case, that groaned and creaked as they trod, every step 
making its particular note, like the key of a harpsichord. 
This led to another hall on the second story, whence 
they entered the room where Dolph was to sleep. It 
was large, and scantily furnished; the shutters were 
closed; but as they were much broken, there was no 
want of a circulation of air. It appeared to have been 
that sacred chamber, known among Dutch housewives 
by the name of "the best bedroom;" which is the best 
furnished room in the house, but in which scarce any- 
body is ever permitted to sleep. Its splendor, however, 
was all at an end. There were a few broken articles of 
furniture about the room, and in the centre stood a 
heavy deal table and a large armchair, both of which 
had the look of being coeval with the mansion. The 
fireplace was wide, and had been faced with Dutch 
tiles, representing Scripture stories; but some of them 




Albany 



Dolph Heyliger 133 

had fallen out of their places, and lay shattered about 
the hearth. The sexton lit the rushlight; and the 
doctor, looking fearfully about the room, was just 
exhorting Dolph to be of good cheer, and to pluck up a 
stout heart, when a noise in the chimney, like voices 
and struggling, struck a sudden panic into the sexton. 
He took to his heels with the lantern; the doctor fol- 
lowed hard after him; the stairs groaned and creaked 
as they hurried down, increasing their agitation and 
speed by its noises. The front door slammed after 
them; and Dolph heard them scrabbling down the 
avenue, till the sound of their feet was lost in the dis- 
tance. That he did not join in this precipitate retreat 
might have been owing to his possessing a little more 
courage than his companions, or perhaps that he had 
caught a glimpse of the cause of their dismay, in a nest 
of chimney swallows, that came tumbling down into 
the fireplace. 

Being now left to himself, he secured the front door by 
a strong bolt and bar; and having seen that the other 
entrances were fastened, returned to his desolate cham- 
ber. Having made his supper from the basket which 
the good old cook had provided, he locked the chamber 
door, and retired to rest on a mattress in one corner. 
The night was calm and still; and nothing broke upon 
the profound quiet, but the lonely chirping of a cricket 
from the chimney of a distant chamber. The rushlight, 
which stood in the centre of the deal table, shed a feeble 
yellow ray, dimly illuminating the chamber, and mak- 
ing uncouth shapes and shadows on the walls, from the 
clothes which Dolph had thrown over a chair. 



134 Stones of the Hudson 

With all his boldness of heart, there was something 
subduing in this desolate scene; and he felt his spirits 
flag within him, as he lay on his hard bed and gazed 
about the room. He was turning over in his mind his 
idle habits, his doubtful prospects, and now and then 
heaving a heavy sigh, as he thought on his poor old 
mother; for there is nothing like the silence and lone- 
liness of night to bring dark shadows over the brightest 
mind. By and by he thought he heard a sound as of 
some one walking below stairs. He listened, and dis- 
tinctly heard a step on the great staircase. It ap- 
proached solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp— tramp! 
It was evidently the tread of some heavy personage; 
and yet how could he have got into the house without 
making a noise .^ He had examined all the fastenings, 
and was certain that every entrance was secure. Still 
the steps advanced, tramp — tramp — tramp! It was 
evident that the person approaching could not be a 
robber, the step was too loud and deliberate; a robber 
would either be stealthy or precipitate. And now the 
footsteps had ascended the staircase; they were slowly 
advancing along the passage, resounding through the 
silent and empty apartments. The very cricket had 
ceased its melancholy note, and nothing interrupted 
their awful distinctness. The door, which had been 
locked on the inside, slowly sprang open, as if self- 
moved. The footsteps entered the room; but no one 
was to be seen. They passed slowly and audibly across 
it, tramp — tramp — tramp! but whatever made the 
sound was invisible. Dolph rubbed his eyes, and stared 
about him; he could see to every part of the dimly- 



Dolph Heyliger 135 

lighted chamber; all was vacant; yet still he heard 
those mysterious footsteps, solemnly walking about 
the chamber. They ceased, and all was dead silence. 
There was something more appalling in this invisible 
visitation, than there would have been in anything 
that addressed Itself to the eyesight. It was awfully 
vague and Indefinite. He felt his heart beat against 
his ribs; a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead; he 
lay for some time in a state of violent agitation; noth- 
ing, however, occurred to increase his alarm. His light 
gradually burnt down into the socket, and he fell asleep. 
When he awoke it was broad daylight; the sun was 
peering through the cracks of the window shutters, and 
the birds were merrily singing about the house. The 
bright cheery day soon put to flight all the terrors of 
the preceding night. Dolph laughed, or rather tried 
to laugh, at all that had passed, and endeavored to per- 
suade himself that It was a mere freak of the imagina- 
tion, conjured up by the stories he had heard; but he 
was a little puzzled to find the door of his room locked 
on the inside, notwithstanding that he had positively 
seen it swing open as the footsteps had entered. He 
returned to town in a state of considerable perplexity; 
but he determined to say nothing on the subject, until 
his doubts were either confirmed or removed by an- 
other night's watching. His silence was a grievous 
disappointment to the gossips who had gathered at the 
doctor's mansion. They had prepared their minds to 
hear direful tales, and were almost in a rage at being 
assured he had nothing to relate. 

The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil. He 



136 Stories of the Hudson 

now entered the house with some trepidation. He was 
particular in examining the fastenings of all the doors, 
and securing them well. He locked the door of his 
chamber, and placed a chair against it; then having 
dispatched his supper, he threw himself on his mattress 
and endeavored to sleep. It was all in vain; a thousand 
crowding fancies kept him waking. The time slowly 
dragged on, as if minutes were spinning themselves out 
into hours. As the night advanced, he grew more and 
more nervous; and he almost started from his couch 
when he heard the mysterious footstep again on the 
staircase. Up it came, as before, solemnly and slowly, 
tramp — tramp — tramp! It approached along the pas- 
sage; the door again swung open, as if there had been 
neither lock nor impediment, and a strange looking 
figure stalked into the room. It was an elderly man, 
large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion. 
He had on a kind of short cloak, with a garment under 
it, belted round the waist; trunk hose, with great 
bunches or bows at the knees; and a pair of russet boots 
very large at top, and standing widely from his legs. 
His hat was broad and slouched, with a feather trailing 
over one side. His iron-grey hair hung in thick masses 
on his neck; and he had a short grizzled beard. He 
walked slowly round the room, as if examining that all 
was safe; then, hanging his hat on a peg beside the 
door, he sat down in the elbow chair, and, leaning his 
elbow on the table, fixed his eyes on Dolph with an 
unmoving and deadened stare. 

Dolph was not naturally a coward; but he had been 
brought up in an implicit belief in ghosts and goblins. 



Dolph Heyliger 137 

A thousand stories came swarming to his mind that he 
had heard about this building; and as he looked at this 
strange personage, with his uncouth garb, his pale 
visage, his grizzly beard, and his fixed, staring, fish- 
like eye, his teeth began to chatter, his hair to rise on 
his head, and a cold sweat to break out all over his 
body. How long he remained in this situation he could 
not tell, for he was like one fascinated. He could not 
take his gaze off from the spectre; but lay staring at 
him, with his whole intellect absorbed in the contempla- 
tion. The old man remained seated behind the table, 
without stirring, or turning an eye, always keeping a 
dead, steady glare upon Dolph. At length the house- 
hold cock, from a neighboring farm, clapped his wings, 
and gave a loud cheerful crow that rang over the fields. 
At the sound the old man slowly rose and took down 
his hat from the peg; the door opened, and closed after 
him; he was heard to go slowly down the staircase, 
tramp — tramp — tramp! — and when he had got to the 
bottom, all was again silent. Dolph lay and listened 
earnestly; counted every footfall; listened, and lis- 
tened, if the steps should return, until, exhausted by 
watching and agitation, he fell into a troubled sleep. 

Daylight again brought fresh courage and assurance. 
He would fain have considered all that had passed as 
a mere dream; yet there stood the chair in which the 
unknown had seated himself; there was the table on 
which he had leaned; there was the peg on which he 
had hung his hat; and there was the door, locked 
precisely as he himself had locked it, with the chair 
placed against it. He hastened down stairs, and ex- 



138 Stories of the Hudson 

amined the doors and windows; all were exactly in the 
same state In which he had left them, and there was no 
apparent way by which any being could have entered 
and left the house, without leaving some trace behind. 
"Pooh!" said Dolph to himself, "it was all a dream:" 
— but it would not do; the more he endeavored to 
shake the scene oflF from his mind, the more it haunted 
him. 

Though he persisted in a strict silence as to all that 
he had seen or heard, yet his looks betrayed the un- 
comfortable night that he had passed. It was evident 
that there was something wonderful hidden under this 
mysterious reserve. The doctor took him into the 
study, locked the door, and sought to have a full and 
confidential communication; but he could get nothing 
out of him. Frau Ilsy took him aside into the pantry, 
but to as little purpose; and Peter de Groodt held him 
by the button for a full hour, in the churchyard, the 
very place to get at the bottom of a ghost story, but 
came off not a whit wiser than the rest. It is always 
the case, however, that one truth concealed makes a 
dozen current lies. It is like a guinea locked up in a 
bank, that has a dozen paper representatives. Before 
the day was over, the neighborhood was full of reports. 
Some said that Dolph Heyliger watched in the haunted 
house, with pistols loaded with silver bullets; others, 
that he had a long talk with a spectre without a head; 
others that Doctor Knipperhausen and the sexton had 
been hunted down the Bowery lane, and quite into 
town by a legion of the ghosts of their customers. 
Some shook their heads, and thought it a shame the 



Dolph Heyliger 139 

doctor should put Dolph to pass the night alone In that 
dismal house, where he might be spirited away, no one 
knew whither, while others observed, with a shrug, 
that if the devil did carry off the youngster, it would 
be but taking his own. 

These rumors at length reached the ears of the good 
Dame Heyliger, and, as may be supposed, threw her 
into a terrible alarm. For her son to have opposed 
himself to danger from living foes, would have been 
nothing so dreadful in her eyes, as to dare alone the 
terrors of the haunted house. She hastened to the 
doctor's, and passed a great part of the day in attempt- 
ing to dissuade Dolph from repeating his vigil; she told 
him a score of tales, which her gossiping friends had 
just related to her, of persons who had been carried off, 
when watching alone in old ruinous houses. It was all 
to no effect. Dolph's pride, as well as curiosity, was 
piqued. He endeavored to calm the apprehensions of 
his mother, and to assure her that there was no truth 
in all the rumors she had heard; she looked at him 
dubiously, and shook her head; but finding his deter- 
mination was not to be shaken, she brought him a little 
thick Dutch Bible, with brass clasps, to take with him 
as a sword wherewith to fight the powers of darkness; 
and, lest that might not be sufficient, the housekeeper 
gave him the Heidelberg catechism by way of dagger. 

The next night, therefore, Dolph took up his quarters 
for the third time in the old mansion. Whether dream 
or not, the same thing was repeated. Towards mid- 
night, when everything was still, the same sound echoed 
through the empty halls — tramp — tramp — tramp ! The 



140 Stories of the Hudson 

stairs were again ascended — the door again swung 
open — the old man entered, walked round the room, 
hung up his hat, and seated himself by the table. The 
same fear and trembling came over poor Dolph, though 
not in so violent a degree. He lay in the same way, 
motionless and fascinated, staring at the figure, which 
regarded him as before, with a dead, fixed, chilling 
gaze. In this way they remained for a long time, till, 
by degrees, Dolph's courage began gradually to revive. 
Whether alive or dead, this being had certainly some 
object in his visitation, and he recollected to have heard 
it said, spirits have no power to speak until spoken to. 
Summoning up resolution, therefore, and making two 
or three attempts, before he could get his parched 
tongue in motion, he addressed the unknown in the 
most solemn form of adjuration, and demanded to 
know what was the motive of his visit. 

No sooner had he finished, than the old man rose, 
took down his hat, the door opened, and he went out, 
looking back upon Dolph just as he crossed the thresh- 
old, as if expecting him to follow. The youngster did 
not hesitate an instant. He took the candle in his hand, 
and the Bible under his arm, and obeyed the tacit invi- 
tation. The candle emitted a feeble, uncertain ray, 
but still he could see the figure before him, slowly de- 
scend the stairs. He followed, trembling. When it 
had reached the bottom of the stairs, it turned through 
the hall towards the back door of the mansion. Dolph 
held the light over the balustrades, but, in his eagerness 
to catch a sight of the unknown, he flared his feeble 
taper so suddenly, that it went out. Still there was 



Dolph Heyliger 141 

sufficient light from the pale moonbeams, that fell 
through a narrow window, to give him an indistinct 
view of the figure, near the door. He followed, there- 
fore, down stairs, and turned towards the place; but 
when he arrived there, the unknown had disappeared. 
The door remained fast barred and bolted; there was 
no other mode of exit, yet the being, whatever he might 
be, was gone. He unfastened the door, and looked out 
into the fields. It was a hazy, moonlight night, so that 
the eye could distinguish objects at some distance. He 
thought he saw the unknown in a footpath which led 
from the door. He was not mistaken; but how had he 
got out of the house.? He did not pause to think, but 
followed on. The old man proceeded at a measured 
pace, without looking about him, his footsteps sounding 
on the hard ground. He passed through the orchard 
of apple trees, always keeping the footpath. It led to 
a well, situated in a little hollow, which had supplied 
the farm with water. Just at this well Dolph lost sight 
of him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but 
nothing was to be seen of the unknown. He reached 
the well, but nobody was there. All the surrounding 
ground was open and clear; there was no bush or 
hiding-place. He looked down the well, and saw, at 
a great depth, the reflection of the sky in the still water. 
After remaining here for some time, without seeing or 
hearing anything more of his mysterious conductor, 
he returned to the house, full of awe and wonder. He 
bolted the door, groped his way back to bed, and it was 
long before he could compose himself to sleep. 

His dreams were strange and troubled. He thought 



142 Stones of the Hudson 

he was following the old man along the side of a great 
river, until they came to a vessel on the point of sailing, 
and that his conductor led him on board and vanished. 
He remembered the commander of the vessel, a short 
swarthy man, with crisped black hair, blind of one eye, 
and lame of one leg; but the rest of his dream was very 
confused. Sometimes he was sailing, sometimes on 
shore; now amidst storms and tempests, and now 
wandering quietly in unknown streets. The figure of 
the old man was strangely mingled up with the inci- 
dents of the dream; and the whole distinctly wound 
up by his finding himself on board of the vessel again, 
returning home, with a great bag of money. 

When he awoke, the grey, cool light of dawn was 
streaking the horizon, and the cocks passing the reveille 
from farm to farm, throughout the country. He rose 
more harassed and perplexed than ever. He was singu- 
larly confounded by all that he had seen and dreamt, 
and began to doubt whether his mind was not aifected, 
and whether all that was passing in his thoughts might 
not be mere feverish fantasy. In his present state of 
mind, he did not feel disposed to return immediately 
to the doctor's, and undergo the cross-questioning of 
the household. He made a scanty breakfast, therefore, 
on the remains of the last night's provisions, and then 
wandered out into the fields to meditate on all that had 
befallen him. Lost in thought, he rambled about, 
gradually approaching the town, until the morning was 
far advanced, when he was roused by a hurry and 
bustle around him. He found himself near the water's 
edge, in a throng of people, hurrying to a pier, where 




k.: _ _.._ 


i 

4 



The Catskills 



Dolph Heyllger 143 

was a vessel ready to make sail. He was unconsciously 
carried along by the impulse of the crowd, and found 
that It was a sloop, on the point of sailing up the Hudson 
to Albany. There was much leave-taking and kissing 
of old women and children, and great activity In carry- 
ing on board baskets of bread and cakes, and provisions 
of all kinds, notwithstanding the mighty joints of meat 
that dangled over the stern; for a voyage to Albany 
was an expedition of great moment In those days. The 
commander of the sloop was hurrying about, and giving 
a world of orders, which were not very strictly attended 
to, one man being busy In lighting his pipe, and another 
in sharpening his snickersnee. 

The appearance of the commander suddenly caught 
Dolph's attention. He was short and swarthy, with 
crisped black hair; blind of one eye and lame of one 
leg — the very commander that he had seen in his dream! 
Surprised and aroused, he considered the scene more 
attentively, and recalled still further traces of his dream : 
the appearance of the vessel, of the river, and of a 
variety of other objects, accorded with the Imperfect 
Images vaguely rising to recollection. 

As he stood musing on these circumstances, the cap- 
tain suddenly called out to him in Dutch, "Step on 
board, young man, or you'll be left behind!" He was 
startled by the summons;, he saw that the sloop was 
cast loose, and was actually moving from the pier; It 
seemed as if he was actuated by some irresistible im- 
pulse; he sprang upon the deck, and the next moment 
the sloop was hurried off by the wind and tide. Dolph's 
thoughts and feelings were all In tumult and confusion. 



144 Stories of the Hudson 

He had been strongly worked upon by the events which 
had recently befallen him, and could not but think there 
was some connection between his present situation and 
his last night's dream. He felt as if under supernatural 
influence; and tried to assure himself with an old and 
favorite maxim of his, that "one way or the other, all 
would turn out for the best." For a moment, the indig- 
nation of the doctor at his departure, without leave, 
passed across his mind, but that was matter of little 
moment; then he thought of the distress of his mother 
at his strange disappearance, and the idea gave him a 
sudden pang; he would have entreated to be put on 
shore; but he knew with such wind and tide the en- 
treaty would have been in vain. Then the inspiring 
love of novelty and adventure came rushing in full tide 
through his bosom; he felt himself launched strangely 
and suddenly on the world, and under full way to ex- 
plore the regions of wonder that lay up this mighty 
river, and beyond those blue mountains which had 
bounded his horizon since childhood. While he was 
lost in this whirl of thought, the sails strained to the 
breeze; the shores seemed to hurry away behind him; 
and, before he perfectly recovered his self-possession, 
the sloop was ploughing her way past Spiting Devil and 
Yonkers, and the tallest chimney of the Manhattoes 
had faded from his sight. 

I have said that a voyage up the Hudson in those 
days was an undertaking of some moment; indeed, it 
was as much thought of as a voyage to Europe is at 
present. The sloops were often many days on the way; 
the cautious navigators taking in sail when it blew 



Dolph Heyliger 145 

fresh, and coming to anchor at night; and stopping to 
send the boat ashore for milk for tea; without which 
it was impossible for the worthy old lady passengers to 
subsist. And there were the much-talked-of perils of 
the Tappan Zee, and the Highlands. In short, a pru- 
dent Dutch burgher would talk of such a voyage for 
months, and even years, beforehand; and never under- 
took it without putting his aifairs in order, making his 
will, and having prayers said for him in the Low Dutch 
churches. 

In the course of such a voyage, therefore, Dolph was 
satisfied he would have time enough to reflect, and to 
make up his mind as to what he should do when he 
arrived at Albany. The captain, with his blind eye 
and lame leg, would, it is true, bring his strange dream 
to mind, and perplex him sadly for a few moments; but 
of late his life had been made up so much of dreams and 
realities, his nights and days had been so jumbled to- 
gether, that he seemed to be moving continually in a 
delusion. There is always, however, a kind of vagabond 
consolation in a man's having nothing in this world 
to lose; with this Dolph comforted his heart, and 
determined to make the most of the present enjoy- 
ment. 

In the second day of the voyage they came to the 
Highlands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, 
that they floated gently with the tide between these 
stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet which 
prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat; 
the turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an 
oar on deck, was echoed from the mountain-side, and 



146 Stones of the Hudson 

reverberated along the shores; and if by chance the 
captain gave a shout of command, there were airy 
tongues which mocked it from every chff. 

Dolph gazed about him in mute deHght and wonder 
at these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left 
the Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height 
over height, forest over forest, away into the deep sum- 
mer sky. To the right strutted forth the bold promon- 
tory of Anthony's Nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling 
about it; while beyond, mountain succeeded to moun- 
tain, until they seemed to lock their arms together, and 
confine this mighty river in their embraces. There was 
a feeling of quiet luxury in gazing at the broad, green 
bosoms here and there scooped out among the preci- 
pices; or at woodlands high in air, nodding over the 
edge of some beetling bluflF, and their foliage all trans- 
parent in the yellow sunshine. 

In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a 
pile of bright, snowy clouds peering above the western 
heights. It was succeeded by another, and another, 
each seemingly pushing onwards its predecessor, and 
towering, with dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue 
atmosphere: and now muttering peals of thunder were 
faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river, 
hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the sky 
and land, now showing a dark ripple at a distance, as 
the breeze came creeping up it. The fish-hawks wheeled 
and screamed, and sought their nests on the high dry 
trees; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the 
rocks, and all nature seemed conscious of the approach- 
ing thundergust. 




Sfiai... 



At the end of the day 



Dolph Heyliger 147 

The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain- 
tops; their summits still bright and snowy, but the 
lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to 
patter down in broad and scattered drops; the wind 
freshened, and curled up the waves; at length it seemed 
as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the mountain- 
tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. 
The lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed 
quivering against the rocks, splitting and rending the 
stoutest forest trees. The thunder burst in tremendous 
explosions; the peals were echoed from mountain to 
mountain; they crashed upon Dunderberg, and rolled 
up the long defile of the Highlands, each headland mak- 
ing a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to bellow 
back the storm. 

For a time the scudding rack and mist, and the 
sheeted rain almost hid the landscape from the sight. 
There was a fearful gloom, illuminated still more fear- 
fully by the streams of lightning which glittered among 
the raindrops. Never had Dolph beheld such an abso- 
lute warring of the elements; it seemed as if the storm 
was tearing and rending its way through this moun- 
tain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven 
into action. 

The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, 
until she came to where the river makes a sudden bend, 
the only one in the whole course of its majestic career.* 
Just as they turned the point, a violent flaw of wind 
came sweeping down a mountain gully, bending the 
forest before it, and, in a moment, lashing up the river 

*This must have been the bend at West Point. 



148 Stories of the Hudson 

into white froth and foam. The captain saw the danger, 
and cried out to lower the sail. Before the order could be 
obeyed, the flaw struck the sloop, and threw her on her 
beam ends. Everything now was fright and confusion; 
the flapping of the sails, the whistling and rushing of 
the wind, the bawling of the captain and crew, the 
shrieking of the passengers, all mingled with the rolling 
and bellowing of the thunder. In the midst of the 
uproar the sloop righted; at the same time the main- 
sail shifted, the boom came sweeping the quarter-deck, 
and Dolph, who was gazing unguardedly at the clouds, 
found himself, in a moment, floundering in the river. 

For once in his life one of his idle accomplishments 
was of use to him. The many truant hours he had 
devoted to sporting in the Hudson had made him an 
expert swimmer; yet with all his strength and skill, he 
found great difficulty in reaching the shore. His dis- 
appearance from the deck had not been noticed by the 
crew, who were all occupied by their own danger. The 
sloop was driven along with inconceivable rapidity. 
She had hard work to weather a long promontory on 
the eastern shore, round which the river turned, and 
which completely shut her from Dolph's view. 

It was on a point of the western shore that he landed, 
and, scrambling up the rocks, threw himself, faint and 
exhausted, at the foot of a tree. By degrees the thunder- 
gust passed over. The clouds rolled away to the east, 
where they lay piled in feathery masses, tinted with 
the last rosy rays of the sun. The distant play of the 
lightning might be seen about the dark bases, and now 
and then might be heard the faint muttering of the 



Dolph Heyliger 149 

thunder. Dolph rose, and sought about to see if any 
path led from the shore, but all was savage and track- 
less. The rocks were piled upon each other; great 
trunks of trees lay shattered about, as they had been 
blown down by the strong winds which draw through 
these mountains, or had fallen through age. The 
rocks, too, were overhung with wild vines and briers, 
which completely matted themselves together, and 
opposed a barrier to all ingress; every movement that 
he made shook down a shower from the dripping foliage. 
He attempted to scale one of these almost perpendicu- 
lar heights; but, though strong and agile, he found it 
an Herculean undertaking. Often he was supported 
merely by crumbling projections of the rock, and some- 
times he clung to roots and branches of trees, and hung 
almost suspended in the air. The wood-pigeon came 
cleaving his whistling flight by him, and the eagle 
screamed from the brow of the impending cliff. As he 
was thus clambering, he was on the point of seizing 
hold of a shrub to aid his ascent, when something rustled 
among the leaves, and he saw a snake quivering along 
like lightning, almost from under his hand. It coiled 
itself up immediately, in an attitude of defiance, with 
flattened head, distended jaws, and quickly vibrating 
tongue, that played like a little flame about its mouth. 
Dolph's heart turned faint within him, and he had well 
nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down the precipice. 
The serpent stood on the defensive but for an instant; 
and, finding there was no attack, glided away into a 
cleft of the rock. Dolph's eye followed it with fearful 
intensity, and saw a nest of adders, knotted, and writh- 



150 Stories of the Hudson 

ing, and hissing in the chasm. He hastened with all 
speed from so frightful a neighborhood. His imagina- 
tion, full of this new horror, saw an adder in every 
curling vine, and heard the tail of a rattlesnake in every 
dry leaf that rustled. 

At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of 
a precipice, but it was covered by a dense forest. Where- 
ever he could gain a lookout between the trees, he 
beheld heights and cliffs, one rising beyond another, 
until huge mountains overtopped the whole. There 
were no signs of cultivation; no smoke curling among 
the trees, to indicate a human residence. Everything 
was wild and solitary. As he was standing on the edge 
of a precipice overlooking a deep ravine fringed with 
trees, his feet detached a great fragment of rock; it 
fell, crashing its way through the tree tops, down into 
the chasm. A loud whoop, or rather yell, issued from 
the bottom of the glen; the moment after there was 
the report of a gun; and a ball came whistling over his 
head, cutting the twigs and leaves, and burying itself 
deep in the bark of a chestnut tree. 

Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a 
precipitate retreat, fearing every moment to hear the 
enemy in pursuit. He succeeded, however, in return- 
ing unmolested to the shore, and determined to pene- 
trate no farther into a country so beset with savage 
perils. 

He sat himself down, dripping, disconsolately, on a 
wet stone. What was to be done.^ Where was he to 
shelter himself .f* The hour of repose was approaching; 
the birds were seeking their nests, the bat began to flit 




Looking down on the eastern valley from a height of the Catskills 



Dolph Heyliger 151 

about in the twilight, and the nighthawk, soaring high 
in the heaven, seemed to be calling out the stars. Night 
gradually closed in, and wrapped everything in gloom; 
and though it was the latter part of summer, the breeze 
stealing along the river, and among these dripping for- 
ests, was chilly and penetrating, especially to a half- 
drowned man. 

As he sat drooping and despondent in this comfortless 
condition, he perceived a light gleaming through the 
trees near the shore, where the winding of the river 
made a deep bay. It cheered him with the hope of a 
human habitation, where he might get something to 
appease the clamorous cravings of his stomach, and 
what was equally necessary in his shipwrecked condi- 
tion, a comfortable shelter for the night. With extreme 
difficulty he made his way towards the light, along 
ledges of rocks, down which he was in danger of sliding 
into the river, and over great trunks of fallen trees, 
some of which had been blown down in the late storm, 
and lay so thickly together, that he had to struggle 
through their branches. At length he came to the brow 
of a rock overhanging a small dell, whence the light 
proceeded. It was from a fire at the foot of a great tree 
in the midst of a grassy interval or plat among the rocks. 
The fire cast up a red glare among the grey crags and 
impending trees; leaving chasms of deep gloom, that 
resembled entrances to caverns. A small brook rippled 
close by, betrayed by the quivering reflection of the 
flame. There were two figures moving about the fire, 
and others squatted before it. As they were between 
him and the light, they were in complete shadow, but 



152 Stones of the Hudson 

one of them happening to move round to the opposite 
side, Dolph was startled at perceiving, by the glare 
falling on painted features, and glittering on silver 
ornaments, that he was an Indian. He now looked 
more narrowly, and saw guns leaning against a tree, 
and a dead body lying on the ground. Here was the 
very foe that had fired at him from the glen. He en- 
deavored to retreat quietly, not caring to intrust him- 
self to these half-human beings, in so savage and lonely 
a place. It was too late; the Indian, with that eagle 
quickness of eye so remarkable in his race, perceived 
something stirring among the bushes on the rock; he 
seized one of the guns that leaned against the tree; one 
moment more, and Dolph might have had his passion 
for adventure cured by a bullet. He hallooed loudly, 
with the Indian salutation of friendship; the whole 
party sprang upon their feet; the salutation was re- 
turned, and the straggler was invited to join them at 
the fire. 

On approaching, he found, to his consolation, the party 
was composed of white men, as well as Indians. One, 
evidently the principal personage, or commander, was 
seated on a trunk of a tree before the fire. He was a 
large stout man, somewhat advanced in life, but hale 
and hearty. His face was bronzed almost to the color 
of an Indian's; he had strong but rather jovial features, 
an aquiline nose, and a mouth shaped like a mastiff's. 
His face was half thrown in shade by a broad hat, with 
a buck's tail in it. His grey hair hung short in his neck. 
He wore a hunting-frock, with Indian leggins and moc- 
casins, and a tomahawk in the broad wampum-belt 



Dolph Heyliger 153 

round his waist. As Dolph caught a distinct view of 
his person and features, something reminded him of 
the old man of the haunted house. The man before 
him, however, was different in dress and age; he was 
more cheery too in aspect, and it was hard to define 
where the vague resemblance lay; but a resemblance 
there certainly was. Dolph felt some degree of awe 
in approaching him; but was assured by a frank, 
hearty welcome. He was still further encouraged, by 
perceiving that the dead body, which had caused him 
some alarm, was that of a deer; and his satisfaction 
was complete in discerning, by savory steams from a 
kettle, suspended by a hooked stick over the fire, that 
there was a part cooking for the evening's repast. 

He had, in fact, fallen in with a rambling hunting 
party; such as often took place in those days among 
the settlers along the river. The hunter is always 
hospitable; and nothing makes men more social and 
unceremonious than meeting in the wilderness. The 
commander of the party poured out a dram of cheering 
liquor, which he gave him with a merry leer, to warm 
his heart; and ordered one of his followers to fetch 
some garments from a pinnace, moored in a cove close 
by, while those in which our hero was dripping might 
be dried before the fire. 

Dolph found, as he had suspected, that the shot from 
the glen, which had come so near giving him his quietus 
when on the precipice, was from the party before him. 
He had nearly crushed one of them by the fragments of 
rock which he had detached; and the jovial old hunter, 
in the broad hat and buck-tail, had fired at the place 



154 Stories of the Hudson 

where he saw the bushes move, supposing it to be some 
wild animal. He laughed heartily at the blunder; it 
being what is considered an exceeding good joke among 
hunters; "but faith, my lad," said he, "if I had but 
caught a glimpse of you to take sight at, you would have 
followed the rock. Antony Vander Heyden is seldom 
known to miss his aim." These last words were at 
once a clue to Dolph's curiosity; and a few questions 
let him completely into the character of the man before 
him, and of his band of woodland rangers. The com- 
mander in the broad hat and hunting-frock was no 
less a personage than the Heer Antony Vander Heyden, 
of Albany, of whom Dolph had many a time heard. 
He was, in fact, the hero of many a story; his singular 
humors and whimsical habits being matters of wonder 
to his quiet Dutch neighbors. As he was a man of 
property, having had a father before him, from whom 
he inherited large tracts of wild land, and whole barrels 
full of wampum, he could indulge his humors without 
control. Instead of staying quietly at home, eating 
and drinking at regular mealtimes, amusing himself 
by smoking his pipe on the bench before the door, and 
then turning into a comfortable bed at night, he de- 
lighted in all kinds of rough, wild expeditions. Never 
so happy as when on a hunting party in the wilderness, 
sleeping under trees or bark sheds, or cruising down 
the river, or on some woodland lake, fishing and fowl- 
ing, and living the Lord knows how. 

He was a great friend to Indians, and to an Indian 
mode of life; which he considered true natural liberty 
and manly enjoyment. When at home he had always 



Dolph Heyllger 155 

several Indian hangers-on, who loitered about his house, 
sleeping like hounds in the sunshine; or preparing 
hunting and fishing-tackle for some new expedition; 
or shooting at marks with bows and arrows. 

Over these vagrant beings Heer Antony had as per- 
fect command as a huntsman over his pack; though 
they were great nuisances to the regular people of his 
neighborhood. As he was a rich man, no one ventured 
to thwart his humors; indeed, his hearty, joyous man- 
ner made him universally popular. He would troll a 
Dutch song as he tramped along the street; hail every 
one a mile off, and when he entered a house, would slap 
the good man familiarly on the back, shake him by the 
hand till he roared, and kiss his wife and daughter 
before his face — in short, there was no pride nor ill 
humor about Heer Antony. ] 

Besides his Indian hangers-on, he had three or four 
humble friends among the white men, who looked up 
to him as a patron, and had the run of his kitchen, and 
the favor of being taken with him occasionally on his 
expeditions. With a medley of such retainers he was 
at present on a cruise along the shores of the Hudson, 
in a pinnace kept for his own recreation. There were 
two white men with him, dressed partly in the Indian 
style, with moccasins and hunting-shirts; the rest of 
his crew consisted of four favorite Indians. They had 
been prowling about the river, without any definite 
object, until they found themselves in the Highlands; 
where they had passed two or three days, hunting the 
deer which still lingered among these mountains. 

"It is lucky for you, young man," said Antony 



X. .' 



J 



156 Stories of the Hudson 

Vander Heyden, "that you happened to be knocked 
overboard to-day; as to-morrow morning we start 
early on our return homewards; and you might then 
have looked in vain for a meal among the mountains — 
but come, lads, stir about! stir about! Let's see what 
prog we have for supper; the kettle has boiled long 
enough; my stomach cries cupboard; and I'll warrant 
our guest is in no mood to dally with his trencher." 

There was a bustle now in the little encampment; 
one took oif the kettle and turned a part of the contents 
into a huge wooden bowl. Another prepared a flat 
rock for a table; while a third brought various utensils 
from the pinnace; Heer Antony himself brought a 
flask or two of precious liquor from his own private 
locker; knowing his boon companions too well to trust 
any of them with the key. 

A rude but hearty repast was soon spread; consist- 
ing of venison smoking from the kettle, with cold bacon, 
boiled Indian corn, and mighty loaves of good brown 
household bread. Never had Dolph made a more 
delicious repast; and when he had washed it down with 
two or three draughts from the Heer Antony's flask, 
and felt the jolly liquor sending its warmth through his 
veins, and glowing round his very heart, he would not 
have changed his situation, no, not with the governor 
of the province. 

The Heer Antony, too, grew chirping and joyous; 
told half a dozen fat stories, at which his white followers 
laughed immoderately, though the Indians, as usual, 
maintained an invincible gravity. 

"This is your true life, my boy!" said he, slapping 



Dolph Heyliger 157 

Dolph on the shoulder; "a man is never a man till he 
can defy wind and weather, range woods and wilds, 
sleep under a tree, and live on basswood leaves!" 

And then would he sing a stave or two of a Dutch 
drinking song, swaying a short squab Dutch bottle in 
his hand, while his myrmidons would join in the chorus, 
until the woods echoed again; — as the good old song 
has it. 



"They all with a shout made the elements ring, 
So soon as the office was o'er; 
To feasting they went, with true merriment. 
And tippled strong liquor galore." 



In the midst of his joviality, however, Heer Antony 
did not lose sight of discretion. Though he pushed the 
bottle without reserve to Dolph, he always took care to 
help his followers himself, knowing the beings he had 
to deal with; and was particular in granting but a 
moderate allowance to the Indians. The repast being 
ended, the Indians having drunk their liquor and 
smoked their pipes, now wrapped themselves in their 
blankets, stretched themselves on the ground, with 
their feet to the fire, and soon fell asleep, like so many 
tired hounds. The rest of the party remained chatter- 
ing before the fire, which the gloom of the forest, and 
the dampness of the air from the late storm, rendered 
extremely grateful and comforting. The conversation 
gradually moderated from the hilarity of supper-time, 
and turned upon hunting adventures, and exploits and 



158 Stories of the Hudson 

perils in the wilderness; many of which were so strange 
and improbable, that I will not venture to repeat them, 
lest the veracity of Antony Vander Heyden and his 
comrades should be brought into question. There were 
many legendary tales told, also, about the river, and 
the settlements on its borders; in which valuable kind 
of lore the Heer Antony seemed deeply versed. As the 
sturdy bush-beater sat in a twisted root of a tree, that 
served him for an armchair, dealing forth these wild 
stories, with the fire gleaming on his strongly-marked 
visage, Dolph was again repeatedly perplexed by some- 
thing that reminded him of the phantom of the haunted 
house; some vague resemblance not to be fixed upon 
any precise feature or lineament, but pervading the 
general air of his countenance and figure. 

The circumstance of Dolph's falling overboard led 
to the relation of divers disasters and singular mishaps 
that had befallen voyagers on this great river, particu- 
larly in the earlier periods of colonial history; most of 
which the Heer deliberately attributed to supernatural 
causes. Dolph stared at this suggestion; but the old 
gentleman assured him it was very currently believed 
by the settlers along the river, that these Highlands 
were under the dominion of supernatural and mis- 
chievous beings, which seemed to have taken some 
pique against the Dutch colonists in the early time of 
the settlement. In consequence of this, they have ever 
taken particular delight in venting their spleen, and 
indulging their humors, upon the Dutch skippers; 
bothering them with flaws, head winds, counter- 
currents, and all kinds of impediments; ''.insomuch. 



Dolph Heyliger 159 

that a Dutch navigator was always obliged to be ex- 
ceedingly wary and deliberate in his proceedings; to 
come to anchor at dusk; to drop his peak, or take in 
sail, whenever he saw a swag-bellied cloud rolling over 
the mountains; in short, to take so many precautions, 
that he was often apt to be an incredible time in toiling 
up the river. 

Some, he said, believed these mischievous powers of 
the air to be evil spirits conjured up by the Indian 
wizards, in the early times of the province, to revenge 
themselves on the strangers who had dispossessed them 
of their country. They even attributed to their incan- 
tations the misadventure which befell the renowned 
Hendrick Hudson, when he sailed so gallantly up this 
river in quest of a northwest passage, and, as he thought, 
ran his ship aground; which they affirm was nothing 
more nor less than a spell of these same wizards, to 
prevent his getting to China in this direction. 

The greater part, however, Heer Antony observed, 
accounted for all the extraordinary circumstances at- 
tending this river, and the perplexities of the skippers 
who navigated it, by the old legend of the Storm-ship 
which haunted Point-no-point. On finding Dolph to 
be utterly ignorant of this tradition, the Heer stared at 
him for a moment with surprise, and wondered where 
he had passed his life, to be uninformed on so important 
a point of history. To pass away the remainder of the 
evening, therefore, he undertook the tale, as far as his 
memory would serve, in the very words in which it had 
been written out by Mynheer Selyne, ^n early poet of 
the New Nederlandts. Giving, then, a stir to the fire, 



i6o Stories of the Hudson 

that sent up its sparks among the trees like a little 
volcano, he adjusted himself comfortably in his root 
of a tree; and throwing back his head, and closing his 
eyes for a few moments, to summon up his recollection, 
he related the following legend. 

THE STORM-SHIP 

In the golden age of the province of the New Nether- 
lands, when under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, 
otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Man- 
hattoes were alarmed one sultry afternoon, just about 
the time of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm 
of thunder and lightning. The rain fell in such torrents 
as absolutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. 
It seemed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the 
very roofs of the houses; the lightning was seen to play 
about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three 
times, in vain, to strike its weathercock. Garret Van 
Home's new chimney was split almost from top to 
bottom; and Doffue Mildeberger was struck speechless 
from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into 
town. In a word, it was one of those unparalleled 
storms which only happen once within the memory of 
that venerable personage, known in all towns by the 
appellation of "the oldest inhabitant." 

Great was the terror of the good old women of the 
Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, 
and took refuge in the cellars, after having hung a shoe 
on the iron point of every bedpost, lest it should 
attract the lightning. At length the storm abated; 



Dolph Heyliger i6i 

the thunder sank into a growl; and the setting sun, 
breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, 
made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of 
molten gold. 

The word was given from the fort that a ship was 
standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, 
and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a 
bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of 
the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the 
inhabitants. It brought them news from the old world, 
from the land of their birth, from which they were so 
completely severed: to the yearly ship, too, they 
looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of com- 
forts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could 
not have her new cap nor new gown until the arrival 
of the ship; the artist waited for it for his tools, the 
burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of Hollands, 
the schoolboy for his top and marbles, and the lordly 
landholder for the bricks with which he was to build 
his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great 
and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It 
was the great yearly event of the town of New Amster- 
dam; and from one end of the year to the other, the 
ship — the ship — the ship — was the continual topic of 
conversation. 

The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the 
populace down to the Battery, to behold the wished- 
for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had 
been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a 
matter of some speculation. Many were the groups 
collected about the Battery. Here and there might be 



l62 Stones of the Hudson 

seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravit7, 
giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of 
old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot 
of old weather-beaten fellows who had been seamen or 
fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on 
such occasions; these gave different opinions, and 
caused great disputes among their several adherents: 
but the man most looked up to, and followed and 
watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old 
Dutch sea-captain retired from service, the nautical 
oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through 
an ancient telescope, covered with tarry canvas, hummed 
a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hum, 
however, from Hans Van Pelt, had always more weight 
with the public than a speech from another man. 

In the meantime the ship became more distinct to 
the naked eye: she was a stout, round, Dutch-built 
vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dutch 
colors. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvas, as 
she came riding over the long waving billows. The 
sentinel who had given notice of her approach, declared 
that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre 
of the bay; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, 
just as if she had come out of the bosom of the black 
thundercloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van 
Pelt, to see what he would say to this report: Hans 
Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer together, and said 
nothing; upon which some shook their heads, and 
others shrugged their shoulders. 

The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no 
reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. 



Dolph Heyliger 163 

A gun was brought to bear on her, and with some diffi- 
culty, loaded and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison 
not being expert in artillery. The shot seemed abso- 
lutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the 
water on the other side, but no notice was taken of it! 
What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed 
right against wind and tide, which were both down the 
river. Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise 
harbor-master, ordered his boat, and set off to board 
her; but after rowing two or three hours, he returned 
without success. Sometimes he would get within one 
or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, 
she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because 
his oarsmen, who were rather pursy and short-winded, 
stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit 
on their hands; but this it is probable was a mere 
scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the 
crew; who were all dressed in the Dutch style, the 
officers in doublets and high hats and feathers; not a 
word was spoken by any one on board; they 
stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship 
seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she 
kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening 
in the evening sunshine, until she faded from sight, 
like a little white cloud melting away in the summer 
sky. 

The appearance of this ship threw the governor into 
one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the 
whole course of his administration. Fears were enter- 
tained for the security of the infant settlements on the 
river, lest this might be an enemy's ship in disguise. 



164 Stones of the Hudson 

sent to take possession. The governor called together 
his council repeatedly to assist him with their conjec- 
tures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber from 
the sacred forest of the Hague, smoking his long jasmin 
pipe, and listening to all that his councillors had to say 
on a subject about which they knew nothing; but in 
spite of all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest 
heads, the governor still continued to doubt. 

Messengers were dispatched to different places on 
the river; but they returned without any tidings — the 
ship had made no port. Day after day, and week after 
week, elapsed, but she never returned down the Hudson. 
As, however, the council seemed solicitous for intelli- 
gence, they had it in abundance. The captains of the 
sloops seldom arrived without bringing some report of 
having seen the strange ship at different parts of the 
river; sometimes near the Palisadoes, sometimes off 
Croton Point, and sometimes in the Highlands; but 
she never was reported as having been seen above the 
Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is true, gener- 
ally differed among themselves in their accounts of 
these apparitions; but that may have arisen from the 
uncertain situations in which they saw her. Some- 
times it was by the flashes of the thunderstorm lighting 
up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering 
across Tappan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw 
Bay. At one moment she would appear close upon 
them, as if likely to run them down, and would throw 
them into great bustle and alarm; but the next flash 
would show her far off, always sailing against the wind. 
Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, she would be 



Dolph Heyliger 165 

seen under some high bluff of the Highlands, all in deep 
shadow, excepting her topsails glittering in the moon- 
beams; by the time, however, that the voyagers 
reached the place, no ship was to be seen; and when 
they had passed on for some distance, and looked back, 
behold! there she was again, with her topsails in the 
moonshine! Her appearance was always just after, or 
just before, or just in the midst of unruly weather; and 
she was known among the skippers and voyagers of the 
Hudson by the name of "the storm-ship." 

These reports perplexed the governor and his council 
more than ever, and it would be endless to repeat the 
conjectures and opinions uttered on the subject. Some 
quoted cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New 
England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans 
Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch 
colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this 
must be the Flying Dutchman, which had so long 
haunted Table Bay, but being unable to make port, had 
now sought another harbor. Others suggested, that if 
it really was a supernatural apparition, as there was 
every natural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick 
Hudson, and his crew of the Half Moon who, it was 
well known, had once run aground in the upper part 
of the river, in seeking a northwest passage to China. 
This opinion had very little weight with the governor, 
but it passed current out of doors, for, indeed, it had 
already been reported that Hendrick Hudson and his 
crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain; and it appeared 
very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest 
the river where the enterprise was baffled, or that it 



l66 Stories of the Hudson 

might bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels 
in the mountain. 

Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and 
doubts of the sage Wouter and his council, and the 
storm-ship ceased to be a subject of deliberation at the 
board. It continued, however, a matter of popular 
belief and marvellous anecdote through the whole time 
of the Dutch government, and particularly just before 
the capture of New Amsterdam, and the subjugation 
of the province by the English squadron. About that 
time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappan 
Zee, and about Weehawk, and even down as far as 
Hoboken, and her appearance was supposed to be 
ominous of the approaching squall in public affairs, and 
the downfall of Dutch domination. 

Since that time we have no authentic accounts of her, 
though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and 
cruises about Point-no-point. People who live along 
the river, insist that they sometimes see her in summer 
moonlight, and that in a deep, still midnight, they have 
heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead; but 
sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountain- 
ous shores, and about the wide bays and long reaches 
of this great river, that I confess I have very strong 
doubts upon the subject. 

It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have 
been seen in these Highlands in storms, which are con- 
sidered as connected with the old story of the ship. The 
captains of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bot- 
tomed Dutch goblin. In trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat, 
with a speakingtrumpet in his hand, which theysay keeps 



Dolph Heyllger 167 

the Dunderberg.* They declare that they have heard 
him, in stormy weather, in the midst of the turmoil, 
giving orders in low Dutch, for the piping up of a fresh 
gust of wind, or the rattling off of another thunderclap. 
That sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a 
crew of little imps, in broad breeches and short doublets, 
tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist, and 
playing a thousand gambols in the air, or buzzing like 
a swarm of flies about Anthony's Nose; and that, at 
such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was always 
greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunder- 
berg, was overtaken by a thundergust, that came 
scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just 
over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, she 
labored dreadfully, and the water came over the gun- 
wale. All the crew were amazed, when it was discovered 
that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast- 
head, known at once to be the hat of the Heer of the 
Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the 
masthead, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop 
continued laboring and rocking, as if she would have 
rolled her mast overboard, and seemed in continual 
danger either of upsetting, or of running on shore. In 
this way she drove quite through the Highlands, until 
she had passed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the 
jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No 
sooner had she passed this bourne, than the little hat 
spun up Into the air, like a top, whirled up all the clouds 
into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of 
the Dunderberg, while the sloop righted herself, and 
*i. e. the "Thunder-Mountain," so called from its echoes. 



l68 Stories of the Hudson 

sailed on as quietly as If In a mlllpond. Nothing saved 
her from utter wreck but the fortunate circumstance of 
having a horseshoe nailed against the mast, a wise 
precaution against evil spirits, since adopted by all the 
Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. | 

There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin 
by Skipper Daniel Ouslesticker, of Fishkill, who was 
never known to tell a lie. He declared that, in a severe 
squall, he saw him seated astride of his bowsprit, riding 
the sloop ashore, full butt against Anthony's Nose, and 
that he was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of 
Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who sang 
the hymn of St. Nicholas, whereupon the goblin threw 
himself up in the air like a ball, and went off in a whirl- 
wind, carrying away with him the nightcap of the 
dominie's wife, which was discovered the next Sunday 
morning hanging on the weathercock of Esopus church 
steeple, at least forty miles off. Several events of this 
kind having taken place, the regular skippers of the 
river, for a long time, did not venture to pass the Dun- 
derberg without lowering their peaks, out of homage to 
the Heer of the mountain, and it was observed that all 
such as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass 
unmolested.* 

*Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies during 
the early times of the settlements, there seems to have been a singu- 
lar one about phantom ships. The superstitious fancies of men are 
always apt to turn upon those objects which concern their daily 
occupations. The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came 
like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to the inhabitants of a settle- 
ment the comforts of life from the world from which they were cut 
off, was apt to be present to their dreams, whether sleeping or wak- 



Dolph Heyliger 169 

"Such," said Antony Vander Heyden, "are a few of 
the stories written down by Selyne the poet, concerning 
this storm-ship; which he affirms to have brought a 
crew of mischievous imps into the province, from some 
old ghost-ridden country of Europe. I could give you 
a host more, if necessary; for all the accidents that so 
often befall the river craft in the Highlands are said to 
be tricks played off by these imps of the Dunderberg; 
but I see that you are nodding, so let us turn in for the 
night." 

The moon had just raised her silver horns above the 
round back of old Bull Hill, and lit up the grey rocks 
and shagged forests, and glittered on the waving bosom 
of the river. The night dew was falling, and the late 
gloomy mountains began to soften and put on a grey 
aerial tint in the dewy light. The hunters stirred the 
fire, and threw on fresh fuel to qualify the damp of the 
night air. They then prepared a bed of branches and 
dry leaves under a ledge of rocks for Dolph; while 
Antony Vander Heyden, wrapping himself in a huge coat 
of skins, stretched himself before the fire. It was 
some time, however, before Dolph could close his eyes. 

ing. The accidental sight from shore of a sail gliding along the hori- 
zon in those, as yet, lonelv seas, was apt to be a matter of much 
talk and speculation. There is mention made in one of the early 
New England writers, of a ship navigated by witches, with a great 
horse that stood by the mainmast. I have met another story, some- 
where, of a ship that drove on shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, 
with sails all set, and a table spread in the cabin, as if to regale a 
number of guests, yet not a living being on board. These phantom 
ships always sailed in the eye of the wind, or ploughed their way 
with great velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, 
when not a breath of air was stirring. 



lyo Stories of the Hudson 

He lay contemplating the strange scene before him: 
the wild woods and rocks around; the fire throwing 
fitful gleams on the faces of the sleeping savages; and 
the Heer Antony, too, who so singularly, yet vaguely, 
reminded him of the nightly visitant to the haunted 
house. Now and then he heard the cry of some animal 
from the forest; or the hooting of the owl; or the notes 
of the whippoorwill, which seemed to abound among 
these solitudes; or the splash of a sturgeon, leaping out 
of the river, and falling back full length on its placid 
surface. He contrasted all this with his accustomed 
nest in the garret room of the doctor's mansion; where 
the only sounds at night were the church clock telling 
the hour; the drowsy voice of the watchman, drawling 
out all was well; the deep snoring of the doctor's 
clubbed nose from below stairs; or the cautious labors 
of some carpenter rat gnawing in the wainscot. His 
thoughts then wandered to his poor old mother: what 
would she think of his mysterious disappearance — 
what anxiety and distress would she not suffer.'' This 
thought would continually intrude itself to mar his 
present enjoyment. It brought with it a feeling of pain 
and compunction, and he fell asleep with the tears yet 
standing in his eyes. 

Were this a mere tale of fancy, here would be a fine 
opportunity for weaving in strange adventures among 
these wild mountains, and roving hunters; and, after 
involving my hero In a variety of perils and difficulties, 
rescuing him from them all by some miraculous contri- 
vance; but as this is absolutely a true story, I must con- 
tent myself with simple facts, and keep to probabilities. 



Dolph Heyliger 171 

At an early hour of the next day, therefore, after a 
hearty morning's meal, the encampment broke up, and 
our adventurers embarked In the pinnace of Antony 
Vander Heyden. There being no wind for the sails, 
the Indians rowed her gently along, keeping time to a 
kind of chant of one of the white men. The day was 
serene and beautiful; the river without a wave; and 
as the vessel cleft the glassy water. It left a long, undulat- 
ing track behind. The crows, who had scented the 
hunter's banquet, were already gathering and hovering 
in the air, just where a column of thin, blue smoke, 
rising from among the trees, showed the place of their 
last night's quarters. As they coasted along the bases 
of the mountains, the Heer Antony pointed out to 
Dolph a bald eagle, the sovereign of these regions, who 
sat perched on a dry tree that projected over the river; 
and, with eye turned upwards, seemed to be drinking 
in the splendor of the morning sun. Their approach 
disturbed the monarch's meditations. He first spread 
one wing, and then the other; balanced himself for a 
moment; and then, quitting his perch with dignified 
composure, wheeled slowly over their heads. Dolph 
snatched up a gun, and sent a whistling ball after him, 
that cut some of the feathers from his wing; the report 
of the gun leaped sharply from rock to rock, and awak- 
ened a thousand echoes; but the monarch of the air 
sailed calmly on, ascending higher and higher, and 
wheeling widely as he ascended, soaring up the green 
bosom of the woody mountain, until he disappeared 
over the brow of a beetling precipice. Dolph felt In a 
manner rebuked by this proud tranquillity, and almost 



172 Stories of the Hudson 

reproached himself for having so wantonly insulted 
this majestic bird. Heer Antony told him, laughing, 
to remember that he was not yet out of the territories 
of the lord of the Dunderberg; and an old Indian shook 
his head, and observed, that there was bad luck in 
killing an eagle; the hunter, on the contrary, should 
always leave him a portion of his spoils. 

Nothing, however, occurred to molest them on their 
voyage. They passed pleasantly through magnificent 
and lonely scenes, until they came to where Pollopol's 
Island lay, like a floating bower, at the extremity of the 
Highlands. Here they landed, until the heat of the 
day should abate, or a breeze spring up, that might 
supersede the labor of the oar. Some prepared the 
mid-day meal, while others reposed under the shade of 
the trees in luxurious summer indolence, looking 
drowsily forth upon the beauty of the scene. On the 
one side were the Highlands, vast and cragged, feathered 
to the top with forests, and throwing their shadows on 
the glassy water that dimpled at their feet. On the 
other side was a wide expanse of the river, like a broad 
lake, with long sunny reaches, and green headlands; 
and the distant line of Shawungunk mountains waving 
along a clear horizon, or checkered by a fleecy cloud. 

But I forbear to dwell on the particulars of their 
cruise along the river; this vagrant, amphibious life, 
careering across silver sheets of water; coasting wild 
woodland shores; banqueting on shady promontories, 
with the spreading tree overhead, the river curling its 
light foam on one's feet, the distant mountain, and 
rock, and tree, and snowy cloud, and deep blue sky, all 



Dolph Heyliger 173 

mingling in summer beauty before one; all this, though 
never cloying in the enjoyment, would be but tedious 
in narration. 

When encamped by the waterside, some of the party 
would go into the woods and hunt; others would fish: 
sometimes they would amuse themselves by shooting 
at a mark, by leaping, by running, by wrestling; and 
Dolph gained great favor in the eyes of Antony Vander 
Heyden, by his skill and adroitness in all these exercises; 
which the Heer considered as the highest of manly 
accomplishments. 

Thus did they coast jollily on, choosing only the 
pleasant hours for voyaging; sometimes in the cool 
morning dawn, sometimes in the sober evening twi- 
light, and sometimes when the moonshine spangled 
the crisp curling waves that whispered along the sides 
of their little bark. Never had Dolph felt so completely 
in his element; never had he met with anything so 
completely to his taste as this wild, haphazard life. 
He was the very man to second Antony Vander Heyden 
in his rambling humors, and gained continually on his 
affections. The heart of the old bushwhacker yearned 
towards the young man, who seemed thus growing up 
in his own likeness; and as they approached to the end 
of their voyage, he could not help inquiring a little into 
his history. Dolph frankly told him his course of life, 
his severe medical studies, his little proficiency, and his 
very dubious prospects. The Heer was shocked to find 
that such amazing talents and accomplishments were 
to be cramped and buried under a doctor's wig. He had 
a sovereign contempt for the healing art, having never 



174 Stories of the Hudson 

had any other physician than the butcher. He bore a 
mortal grudge to all kinds of study also, ever since he 
had been flogged about an unintelligible book when he 
was a boy. But to think that a young fellow like Dolph, 
of such wonderful abilities, who could shoot, fish, run, 
jump, ride, and wrestle, should be obliged to roll pills, 
and administer juleps for a living — 'twas monstrous! 
He told Dolph never to despair, but to "throw physic 
to the dogs;" for a young fellow of his prodigious 
talents could never fail to make his way. "As you 
seem to have no acquaintance in Albany," said Heer 
Antony, "you shall go home with me, and remain under 
my roof until you can look about you; and In the 
meantime we can take an occasional bout at shooting 
and fishing, for It is a pity that such talents should lie 
idle." 

Dolph, who was at the mercy of chance, was not hard 
to be persuaded. Indeed, on turning over matters In 
his mind, which he did very sagely and deliberately, 
he could not but think that Antony Vander Heyden was, 
"somehow or other," connected with the story of the 
haunted house; that the misadventure In the High- 
lands, which had thrown them so strangely together, 
was, "somehow or other," to work out something good: 
in short, there Is nothing so convenient as this "some- 
how or other" way of accommodating one's self to cir- 
cumstances; it Is the main stay of a heedless actor and 
tardy reasoner, like Dolph Heyllger; and he who can, 
in this loose, easy way, link foregone evil to anticipated 
good, possesses a secret of happiness almost equal to 
the philosopher's stone. 



Dolph Heyllger 175 

On their arrival at Albany, the sight of Dolph's com- 
panion seemed to cause universal satisfaction. Many 
were the greetings at the riverside, and the salutations 
in the streets; the dogs bounded before him; the boys 
whooped as he passed; everybody seemed to know 
Antony Vander Heyden. Dolph followed on in silence, 
admiring the neatness of this worthy burgh; for in 
those days Albany was in all its glory, and inhabited 
almost exclusively by the descendants of the original 
Dutch settlers, not having as yet been discovered and 
colonized by the restless people of New England. 
Everything was quiet and orderly; everything was 
conducted calmly and leisurely; no hurry, no bustle, no 
struggling and scrambling for existence. The grass 
grew about the unpaved streets, and relieved the eye 
by its refreshing verdure. Tall sycamores or pendent 
willows shaded the houses, with caterpillars swinging, 
in long silken strings, from their fine branches; or 
moths fluttering about like coxcombs, in joy at their 
gay transformation. The houses were built in the old 
Dutch style, with the gable ends towards the street. 
The thrifty housewife was seated on a bench before her 
door, in close-crimped cap, bright flowered gown, and 
white apron, busily employed in knitting. The hus- 
band smoked his pipe on the opposite bench, and the 
little pet negro girl, seated on the step at her mistress's 
feet, was industriously plying her needle. The swal- 
lows sported about the eaves, or skimmed along the 
streets, and brought back some rich booty for their 
clamorous young; and the little housekeeping wren 
flew in and out of a Lilliputian house, or an old hat 



176 Stories of the Hudson 

nailed against the wall. The cows were coming home, 
lowing through the streets, to be milked at their owner's 
door; and if, perchance, there were any loiterers, some 
negro urchin, with a long goad, was gently urging them 
homewards. 

As Dolph's companion passed on, he received a tran- 
quil nod from the burghers, and a friendly word from 
their wives; all calling him familiarly by the name 
of Antony; for it was the custom in this stronghold of 
the patriarchs, where they had all grown up together 
from childhood, to call each other by the Christian 
name. The Heer did not pause to have his usual jokes 
with them, for he was impatient to reach his home. 
At length they arrived at his mansion. It was of some 
magnitude, in the Dutch style, with large iron figures 
on the gables, that gave the date of its erection, and 
showed that it had been built in the earliest times of 
the settlement. 

The news of Heer Antony's arrival had preceded him, 
and the whole household was on the lookout. A crew 
of negroes, large and small, had collected in front of 
the house to receive him. The old, white-headed ones, 
who had grown grey in his service, grinned for joy, and 
made many awkward bows and grimaces, and the little 
ones capered about his knees. But the most happy 
being in the household was a little, plump, blooming 
lass, .his only child, and the darling of his heart. She 
came bounding out of the house; but the sight of a 
strange young man with her father called up, for a 
moment, all the bashfulness of a homebred damsel. 
Dolph gazed at her with wonder and delight; never 



Dolph Heyliger 177 

had he seen, as he thought, anything so comely in the 
shape of woman. She was dressed in the good old Dutch 
taste, with long stays, and full, short petticoats, so 
admirably adapted to show and set off the female form. 
Her hair, turned up under a small round cap, displayed 
the fairness of her forehead; she had fine, blue, laugh- 
ing eyes; a trim, slender waist, and soft swell — but, in 
a word, she was a little Dutch divinity; and Dolph, 
who never stopped half way in a new impulse, fell 
desperately in love with her. 

Dolph was now ushered into the house with a hearty 
welcome. In the interior was a mingled display of Heer 
Antony's taste and habits, and of the opulence of his 
predecessors. The chambers were furnished with good 
old mahogany; the beaufets and cupboards glittered 
with embossed silver and painted china. Over the 
parlor fireplace was, as usual, the family coat of arms, 
painted and framed: above which was a long duck 
fowling piece, flanked by an Indian pouch, and a 
powderhorn. The room was decorated with many 
Indian articles, such as pipes of peace, tomahawks, 
scalping knives, hunting pouches, and belts of wam- 
pum; and there were various kinds of fishing tackle, 
and two or three fowling pieces in the corners. The 
household affairs seemed to be conducted, in some 
measure, after the master's humors; corrected, perhaps, 
by a little quiet management of the daughter's. There 
was a great degree of patriarchal simplicity and good- 
humored indulgence. The negroes came into the room 
without being called, merely to look at their master, 
and hear of his adventures; they would stand listening 



1 78 Stones of the Hudson 

at the door until he had finished a story, and then go 
off on a broad grin, to repeat it in the kitchen. A couple 
of pet negro children were playing about the floor with 
the dogs, and sharing with them their bread and butter. 
All the domestics looked hearty and happy; and when 
the table was set for the evening repast, the variety and 
abundance of good household luxuries bore testimony 
to the open-handed liberality of the Heer, and the no- 
table housewifery of his daughter. 

In the evening there dropped in several of the worthies 
of the place, the Van Rennsellaers, and the Ganse- 
voorts, and the Rosebooms, and others of Antony 
Vander Heyden's intimates, to hear an account of his 
expedition, for he was the Sindbad of Albany, and his 
exploits and adventures were favorite topics of conversa- 
tion among the inhabitants. While these sat gossiping 
together about the door of the hall, and telling long 
twilight stories, Dolph was cosily seated, entertaining 
the daughter, on a window bench. He had already got 
on intimate terms, for those were not times of false 
reserve and idle ceremony; and, besides, there is some- 
thing wonderfully propitious to a lover's suit, in the 
delightful dusk of a long summer evening; It gives cour- 
age to the most timid tongue, and hides the blushes of 
the bashful. The stars above twinkled brightly, and 
now and then a firefly streamed his transient light be- 
fore the window, or, wandering into the room, flew 
gleaming about the ceiling. 

What Dolph whispered in her ear that long summer 
evening it is impossible to say; his words were so low 
and indistinct that they never reached the ear of the 



Dolph Heyliger 179 

historian. It is probable, however, that they were to 
the purpose, for he had a natural talent at pleasing the 
sex, and was never long in company with a petticoat, 
without paying proper court to it. 

In the meantime the visitors, one by one, departed; 
Antony Vander Heyden, who had fairly talked himself 
silent, sat nodding alone in his chair by the door, when' 
he was suddenly aroused by a hearty salute with which 
Dolph Heyliger had unguardedly rounded off one of 
his periods, and which echoed through the still chamber 
like the report of a pistol. The Heer started up, rubbed 
his eyes, called for lights, and observed that it was high 
time to go to bed, though, on parting for the night, he 
squeezed Dolph heartily by the hand, looked kindly in 
his face, and shook his head knowingly, for the Heer 
well remembered what he himself had been at the 
youngster's age. 

The chamber in which our hero was lodged was 
spacious, and panelled with oak. It was furnished with 
clothespresses, and mighty chests of drawers, well 
waxed, and glittering with brass ornaments. These 
contained ample stock of family linen, for the Dutch 
housewives had always a laudable pride in showing off 
their household treasures to strangers. 

Dolph's mind, however, was too full to take particu- 
lar notice of the objects around him; yet he could not 
help continually comparing the free, open-hearted 
cheeriness of this establishment, with the starveling, 
sordid, joyless housekeeping at Doctor Knipperhausen's. 
Still something marred the enjoyment; the idea that 
he must take leave of his hearty host and pretty hostess, 



i8o Stories of the Hudson 

and cast himself once more adrift upon the world. To 
linger here would be folly; he should only get deeper 
in love, and for a poor varlet, like himself, to aspire to 
the daughter of the great Heer Vander Heyden — it was 
madness to think of such a thing. The very kindness 
that the girl had shown towards him, prompted him, 
on reflection, to hasten his departure; it would be a 
poor return for the frank hospitality of his host, to 
entangle his daughter's heart in an injudicious attach- 
ment. In a word, Dolph was like many other young 
reasoners, of exceeding good hearts, and giddy heads, 
who think after they act, and act differently from what 
they think; who make excellent determinations over 
night, and forget to keep them the next morning. 

"This is a fine conclusion, truly, of my voyage," 
said he, as he almost buried himself in a sumptuous 
feather bed, and drew the fresh white sheets up to his 
chin. "Here am I, instead of finding a bag of money 
to carry home, launched in a strange place, with scarcely 
a stiver in my pocket, and, what is worse, have jumped 
ashore up to my very ears in love into the bargain. 
However," added he, after some pause, stretching him- 
self, and turning himself in bed, "I'm in good quarters 
for the present, at least, so I'll e'en enjoy the present 
moment, and let the next take care of itself; I dare say 
all will work out, 'somehow or other,' for the best." 

As he said these words, he reached out his hand to 
extinguish the candle, when he was suddenly struck 
with astonishment and dismay, for he thought he be- 
held the phantom of the haunted house staring on him 
from a dusky part of the chamber. A second look reas- 



ip^ 




J ■■ I: .-i-' 



' . , * 




Becalmed 



Dolph Heyliger i8i 

sured him, as he perceived that what he had taken for 
a spectre was, in fact, nothing but a Flemish portrait, 
hanging in a shadowy corner, just behind a clothes- 
press. It was, however, the precise representation of 
his nightly visitor. The same cloak and belted jerkin, 
the same grizzled beard and fixed eye, the same broad 
slouched hat, with a feather hanging over one side. 
Dolph now called to mind the resemblance he had fre- 
quently remarked between his host and the old man of 
the haunted house, and was fully convinced they were 
in some way connected, and that some especial destiny 
had governed his voyage. He lay gazing on the por- 
trait with almost as much awe as he had gazed on the 
ghostly original, until the shrill house-clock warned 
him of the lateness of the hour. He put out the light, 
but remained for a long time turning over these curious 
circumstances and coincidences in his mind, until he 
fell asleep. His dreams partook of the nature of his 
waking thoughts. He fancied that he still lay gazing on 
the picture, until, by degrees, it became animated; that 
the figure descended from the wall, and walked out of 
the room, that he followed it, and found himself by the 
well, to which the old man pointed, smiled on him, and 
disappeared. 

In the morning, when he waked, he found his host 
standing by his bedside, who gave him a hearty morn- 
ing's salutation, and asked him how he had slept. 
Dolph answered cheerily, but took occasion to inquire 
about the portrait that hung against the wall. "Ah," 
said Heer Antony, "that's a portrait of old Killian 
Vander Spiegel, once a burgomaster of Amsterdam, who, 



1 82 Stones of the Hudson 

on some popular troubles, abandoned Holland, and 
came over to the province during the government of 
Peter Stuyvesant. He was my ancestor by the mother's 
side, and an old miserly curmudgeon he was. When 
the English took possession of New Amsterdam, in 
1664, he retired into the country. He fell into a melan- 
choly, apprehending that his wealth would be taken 
from him, and he come to beggary. He turned all his 
property into cash, and used to hide it away. He was 
for a year or two concealed in various places, fancying 
himself sought after by the English, to strip him of his 
wealth; and finally was found dead in his bed one 
morning, without any one being able to discover where 
he had concealed the greater part of his money." 

When his host had left the room, Dolph remained 
for some time lost in thought. His whole mind was 
occupied by what he had heard. Vander Spiegel was 
his mother's family name; and he recollected to have 
heard her speak of this very Killian Vander Spiegel as 
one of her ancestors. He had heard her say, too, that 
her father was Killian's rightful heir, only that the old 
man died without leaving anything to be inherited. 
It now appeared that Heer Antony was likewise a 
descendant, and perhaps an heir, also, of this poor rich 
man, and that thus the Heyligers and the Vander 
Heydens were remotely connected. "What," thought 
he, "if, after all, this is the interpretation of my dream, 
that this is the way I am to make my fortune by this 
voyage to Albany, and that I am to find the old man's 
hidden wealth in the bottom of that well .? But what an 
odd roundabout mode of communicating the matter! 



Dolph Heyliger 183 

Why the plague could not the old goblin have told me 
about the well at once, without sending me all the way 
to Albany, to hear a story that was to send me all the 
way back again?" 

These thoughts passed through his mind while he 
was dressing. He descended the stairs, full of perplex- 
ity, when the bright face of Marie Vander Heyden 
suddenly beamed in smiles upon him, and seemed to 
give him a clue to the whole mystery. "After all," 
thought he, "the old goblin is in the right. If I am 
to get his wealth, he means that I shall marry his 
pretty descendant; thus both branches of the family 
will be again united, and the property go on in the 
proper channel." 

No sooner did this idea enter his head, than it carried 
conviction with it. He was now all impatience to hurry 
back and secure the treasure, which, he did not doubt, 
lay at the bottom of the well, and which he feared every 
moment might be discovered by some other person. 
"Who knows," thought he, "but this night-walking 
old fellow of the haunted house may be in the habit of 
haunting every visitor, and may give a hint to some 
shrewder fellow than myself, who will take a shorter 
cut to the well than by the way of Albany.^" He wished 
a thousand times that the babbling old ghost was laid 
in the Red Sea, and his rambling portrait with him. He 
was in a perfect fever to depart. Two or three days 
elapsed before any opportunity presented for returning 
down the river. They were ages to Dolph, notwith- 
standing that he was basking in the smiles of the pretty 
Marie, and daily getting more and more enamored. 



184 Stories of the Hudson 

At length the very sloop from which he had been 
knocked overboard, prepared to make sail. Dolph 
made an awkward apology to his host for his sudden 
departure. Antony Vander Heyden was sorely aston- 
ished. He had concerted half a dozen excursions into 
the wilderness; and his Indians were actually preparing 
for a grand expedition to one of the lakes. He took 
Dolph aside, and exerted his eloquence to get him to 
abandon all thoughts of business and to remain with 
him, but in vain; and he at length gave up the attempt, 
observing, "that it was a thousand pities so fine a young 
man should throw himself away." Heer Antony, how- 
ever, gave him a hearty shake by the hand at parting, 
with a favorite fowling piece, and an invitation to come 
to his house whenever he revisited Albany. The pretty 
little Marie said nothing; but as he gave her a farewell 
kiss, her dimpled cheek turned pale, and a tear stood 
in her eye. 

Dolph sprang lightly on board of the vessel. They 
hoisted sail; the wind was fair; they soon lost sight of 
Albany, its green hills, and embowered islands. They 
were wafted gaily past the Kaatskill mountains, whose 
fairy heights were bright and cloudless. They passed 
prosperously through the Highlands, without any 
molestation from the Dunderberg goblin and his crew; 
they swept on across Haverstraw Bay, and by Croton 
Point, and through the Tappan Zee, and under the 
Palisadoes, until, in the afternoon of the third day, they 
saw the promontory of Hoboken, hanging like a cloud 
in the air; and, shortly after, the roofs of the Manhat- 
toes rising out of the water. 



Dolph Heyliger 185 

Dolph's first care was to repair to his mother's house; 
for he was continually goaded by the idea of the un- 
easiness she must experience on his account. He was 
puzzling his brains, as he went along, to think how he 
should account for his absence, without betraying the 
secrets of the haunted house. In the midst of these 
cogitations, he entered the street in which his mother's 
house was situated, when he was thunderstruck at be- 
holding it a heap of ruins. 

There had evidently been a great fire, which had 
destroyed several large houses, and the humble dwelling 
of the poor Dame Heyliger had been involved in the 
conflagration. The walls were not so completely 
destroyed, but that Dolph could distinguish some 
traces of the scene of his childhood. The fireplace, 
about which he had often played, still remained, orna- 
mented with Dutch tiles, illustrating passages in Bible 
history, on which he had many a time gazed with ad- 
miration. Among the rubbish lay the wreck of the 
good dame's elbow chair, from which she had given 
him so many a wholesome precept; and hard by it was 
the family Bible, with brass clasps; now, alas! reduced 
almost to a cinder. 

For a moment Dolph was overcome by this dismal 
sight, for he was seized with the fear that his mother 
had perished in the flames. He was relieved, however, 
from this horrible apprehension, by one of the neighbors, 
who happened to come by and informed him that his 
mother was yet alive. 

The good woman had, indeed, lost everything by 
this unlooked-for calamity; for the populace had been 



1 86 Stories of the Hudson 

so intent upon saving the fine furniture of her rich 
neighbors, that the Httle tenement, and the little all of 
poor Dame Heyliger, had been suffered to consume 
without interruption; nay, had it not been for the gal- 
lant assistance of her old crony, Peter de Groodt, the 
worthy dame and her cat might have shared the fate 
of their habitation. 

As it was, she had been overcome with fright and 
affliction, and lay ill in body and sick at heart. The 
public, however, had showed her its wonted kindness. 
The furniture of her rich neighbors being, as far as 
possible, rescued from the flames; themselves duly and 
ceremoniously visited and condoled with on the injury 
of their property, and their ladies commiserated on the 
agitation of their nerves; the public, at length, began 
to recollect something about poor Dame Heyliger. She 
forthwith became again a subject of universal sympathy; 
everybody pitied her more than ever; and if pity could 
but have been coined Into cash — good Lord! how rich 
she would have been! 

It was now determined, in good earnest, that some- 
thing ought to be done for her without delay. The 
dominie, therefore, put up prayers for her on Sunday, 
in which all the congregation joined most heartily. 
Even Cobus Groesbeek, the alderman, and Mynheer 
Milledollar, the great Dutch merchant, stood up in 
their pews, and did not spare their voices on the occa- 
sion; and it was thought the prayers of such great men 
could not but have their due weight. Doctor Knipper- 
hausen, too, visited her professionally, and gave her 
abundance of advice gratis, and was universally lauded 



Dolph Heyliger 187 

for his charity. As to her old friend, Peter de Groodt, 
he was a poor man, whose pity, and prayers, and advice, 
could be of but little avail, so he gave her all that was 
in his power — he gave her shelter. 

To the humble dwelling of Peter de Groodt, then, did 
Dolph turn his steps. On his way thither, he recalled 
all the tenderness and kindness of his simple-hearted 
parent, her indulgence of his errors, her blindness to his 
faults; and then he bethought himself of his own idle, 
harum-scarum life. "I've been a sad scapegrace," said 
Dolph, shaking his head sorrowfully. "I've been a com- 
plete sink-pocket, that's the truth of it! — But," added 
he briskly, and clasping his hands, "only let her live — 
only let her live — and I'll show myself indeed a son!" 

As Dolph approached the house he met Peter de 
Groodt coming out of it. The old man started back 
aghast, doubting whether it was not a ghost that stood 
before him. It being bright daylight, however, Peter 
soon plucked up heart, satisfied that no ghost dare 
show his face in such clear sunshine. Dolph now 
learned from the worthy sexton the consternation and 
rumor to which his mysterious disappearance had given 
rise. It had been universally believed that he had been 
spirited away by those hobgoblin gentry that infested 
the haunted house; and old Abraham Vandozer, who 
lived by the great buttonwood trees, near the three- 
mile stone, affirmed, that he had heard a terrible noise 
in the air, as he was going home late at night, which 
seemed just as if a flock of wild geese were overhead, 
passing off towards the northward. The haunted house 
was, in consequence, looked upon with ten times more 



1 88 Stories of the Hudson 

awe than ever; nobody would venture to pass a night 
in it for the world, and even the doctor had ceased to 
make his expeditions to it in the daytime. 

It required some preparation before Dolph's return 
could be made known to his mother, the poor soul hav- 
ing bewailed him as lost; and her spirits having been 
sorely broken down by a number of comforters, who 
daily cheered her with stories of ghosts, and of people 
carried away by the devil. He found her confined to 
her bed, with the other member of the Heyliger family, 
the good dame's cat, purring beside, her, but sadly 
singed, and utterly despoiled of those whiskers which 
were the glory of her physiognomy. The poor woman 
threw her arms about Dolph's neck: "My boy! my 
boy! art thou still alive.'"' For a time she seemed to 
have forgotten all her losses and troubles in her joy at 
his return. Even the sage grimalkin showed indubita- 
ble signs of joy at the return of the youngster. She 
saw, perhaps, that they were a forlorn and undone 
family, and felt a touch of that kindliness which fellow- 
sufferers only know. But, in truth, cats are a slandered 
people; they have more affection in them than the 
world commonly gives them credit for. 

The good dame's eyes glistened as she saw one being, 
at least, beside herself, rejoiced at her son's return. 
"Tib knows thee! poor dumb beast!" said she, smooth- 
ing down the mottled coat of her favorite; then recol- 
lecting herself, with a melancholy shake of the head, 
"Ah, my poor Dolph!" exclaimed she, "thy mother 
can help thee no longer! She can no longer help her- 
self! What will become of thee, my poor boy!" 



Dolph Heyliger 189 

"Mother," said Dolph, "don't talk In that strain; 
I've been too long a charge upon you; it's now my 
part to take care of you in your old age. Come! 
be of good heart! you, and I, and Tib will all see 
better days. I'm here, you see, young, and sound, 
and hearty; then don't let us despair; I dare say 
things will all, somehow or other, turn out for the 
best." 

While this scene was going on with the Heyliger 
family, the news was carried to Doctor Knipperhausen, 
of the safe return of his disciple. The little doctor 
scarce knew whether to rejoice or be sorry at the tidings. 
He was happy at having the fond reports which had 
prevailed concerning his country mansion thus dis- 
proved; but he grieved at having his disciple, of whom 
he had supposed himself fairly disencumbered, thus 
drifting back, a heavy charge upon his hands. While 
balancing between these two feelings, he was determined 
by the counsels of Frau Ilsy, who advised him to take 
advantage of the truant absence of the youngster, and 
shut the door upon him forever. 

At the hour of bedtime, therefore, when it was sup- 
posed the recreant disciple would seek his old quarters, 
everything was prepared for his reception. Dolph, 
having talked his mother into a state of tranquillity, 
sought the mansion of his quondam master, and raised 
the knocker with a faltering hand. Scarcely, however, 
had it given a dubious rap, when the doctor's head, in 
a red nightcap, popped out of one window, and the 
housekeeper's, in a white nightcap, out of another. 
He was now greeted with a tremendous volley of hard 



190 Stories of the Hudson 

names and hard language, mingled with invaluable 
pieces of advice, such as are seldom ventured to be 
given excepting to a friend in distress, or a culprit at 
the bar. In a few moments, not a window in the street 
but had its particular nightcap, listening to the shrill 
treble of Frau Ilsy, and the guttural croaking of Dr. 
Knipperhausen; and the word went from window to 
window, "Ah! here's Dolph Heyliger come back, and 
at his old pranks again." In short, poor Dolph found 
he was likely to get nothing from the doctor but good 
advice, a commodity so abundant as even to be thrown 
out of the window; so he was fain to beat a retreat, and 
take up his quarters for the night under the lowly roof 
of honest Peter de Groodt. 

The next morning, bright and early, Dolph was out 
at the haunted house. Everything looked just as he 
had left it. The fields were grass-grown and matted, 
and appeared as if nobody had traversed them since 
his departure. With palpitating heart he hastened to 
the well. He looked down into it, and saw that it was 
of great depth, with water at the bottom. He had pro- 
vided himself with a strong line, such as the fishermen 
use on the banks of Newfoundland. At the end was a 
heavy plummet and a large fishhook. With this he 
began to sound the bottom of the well, and to angle 
about in the water. The water was of some depth; 
there was also much rubbish, stones from the top hav- 
ing fallen in. Several times his hook got entangled, 
and he came near breaking his line. Now and then, 
too, he hauled up mere trash, such as the skull of a 
horse, an iron hoop, and a shattered iron-bound 



Dolph Heyliger 191 

bucket. He had now been several hours employed 
without finding anything to repay his trouble, or to 
encourage him to proceed. He began to think himself 
a great fool, to be thus decoyed into a wild-goose-chase 
by mere dreams, and was on the point of throwing line 
and all into the well, and giving up all further angling. 

"One more cast of the line," said he, "and that shall 
be the last." As he sounded, he felt the plummet slip, 
as it were through the interstices of loose stones; and 
as he drew back the line, he felt that the hook had taken 
hold of something heavy. He had to manage his line 
with great caution, lest it should be broken by the 
strain upon it. By degrees the rubbish which lay upon 
the article he had hooked gave way; he drew it to the 
surface of the water, and what was his rapture at seeing 
something like silver glittering at the end of his line! 
Almost breathless with anxiety, he drew it up to the 
mouth of the well, surprised at its great weight, and 
fearing every instant that his hook would slip from its 
hold, and his prize tumble again to the bottom. At 
length he landed it safe beside the well. It was a great 
silver porringer, of an ancient form, richly embossed, 
and with armorial bearings engraved on its side, simi- 
lar to those over his mother's mantelpiece. The lid 
was fastened down by several twists of wire; Dolph 
loosened them with a trembling hand, and, on lifting 
the lid, behold! the vessel was filled with broad golden 
pieces, of a coinage which he had never seen before. 
It was evident he had lit on the place where Killian 
Vander Spiegel had concealed his treasure. 

Fearful of being seen by some straggler, he cautiously 



192 Stories of the Hudson 

retired, and buried his pot of money in a secret place. 
He now spread terrible stories about the haunted house, 
and deterred every one from approaching it, while he 
made frequent visits to it in stormy days, when no one 
was stirring in the neighboring fields; though, to tell 
the truth, he did not care to venture there in the dark. 
For once in his life he was diligent and industrious, and 
followed up his new trade of angling with such persever- 
ance and success, that in a little while he had hooked 
up wealth enough to make him, in those moderate days, 
a rich burgher for life. 

It would be tedious to detail minutely the rest of this 
story: — to tell how he gradually managed to bring his 
property into use without exciting surprise and inquiry 
— how he satisfied all scruples with regard to retaining 
the property, and at the same time gratified his own 
feelings, by marrying the pretty Marie Vander Heyden 
— and how he and Heer Antony had many a merry and 
roving expedition together. 

I must not omit to say, however, that Dolph took 
his mother home to live with him, and cherished her 
in her old days. The good dame, too, had the satisfac- 
tion of no longer hearing her son made the theme of 
censure; on the contrary, he grew daily in public 
esteem; everybody spoke well of him and his wines; 
and the lordliest burgomaster was never known to 
decline his invitation to dinner. Dolph often related, 
at his own table, the wicked pranks which had once 
been the abhorrence of the town; but they were now 
considered excellent jokes, and the gravest dignitary 
was fain to hold his sides when Hstening to them. No 



Dolph Heyliger 193 

one was more struck with Dolph's increasing merit than 
his old master the doctor; and so forgiving was Dolph, 
that he absolutely employed the doctor as his family 
physician, only taking care that his prescriptions should 
be always thrown out of the window. His mother had 
often her junto of old cronies to take a snug cup of tea 
with her in her comfortable little parlor; and Peter de 
Groodt, as he sat by the fireside, with one of her grand- 
children on his knee, would many a time congratulate 
her upon her son turning out so great a man; upon 
which the good old soul would wag her head with exulta- 
tion, and exclaim, "Ah, neighbor, neighbor! did I not 
say that Dolph would one day or other hold up his 
head with the best of them?" 

Thus did Dolph Heyliger go on, cheerily and pros- 
perously, growing merrier as he grew older and wiser, 
and completely falsifying the old proverb about money 
got over the devil's back; for he made good use of his 
wealth, and became a distinguished citizen, and a valua- 
ble member of the community. He was a great pro- 
moter of public institutions, such as beefsteak societies 
and catch-clubs. He presided at all public dinners, and 
was the first that introduced turtle from the West 
Indies. He improved the breed of race horses and 
gamecocks, and was so great a patron of modest merit, 
that any one who could sing a good song, or tell a good 
story, was sure to find a place at his table. 

He was a member, too, of the corporation, made 
several laws for the protection of game and oysters, 
and bequeathed to the board a large silver punch-bowl, 
made out of the identical porringer before mentioned, 



194 Stories of the Hudson 

and which Is in the possession of the corporation to this 
very day. 

Finally, he died, in a florid old age, of an apoplexy at 
a corporation feast, and was buried with great honors 
in the yard of the little Dutch church in Garden Street, 
where his tombstone may still be seen, with a modest 
epitaph in Dutch, by his friend Mynheer Justus Benson, 
an ancient and excellent poet of the province. 

The foregoing tale rests on better authority than 
most tales of the kind, as I have it at second hand from 
the lips of Dolph Heyliger himself. He never related it 
till towards the latter part of his life, and then in great 
confidence (for he was very discreet), to a few of his 
particular cronies at his own table, over a supernumer- 
ary bowl of punch; and strange as the hobgoblin parts 
of the story may seem, there never was a single doubt 
expressed on the subject by any of his guests. It may 
not be amiss, before concluding, to observe that, in 
addition to his other accomplishments, Dolph Heyliger 
was noted for being the ablest drawer of the long bow 
in the whole province. 



RIP VAN WINKLE 



TXT^HOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson 
must remember the Kaatsklll Mountains. They 
are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian 
family, and are seen away to the west of the river, 
swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the 
surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, pro- 
duces some change in the magical hues and shapes of 
these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and 
purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear even- 
ing sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape 
is cloudless, they will gather a hood of grey vapors about 
their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting 
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from a 
village, whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, 
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the 
province, just about the beginning of the government 



196 Stories of the Hudson 

of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest In peace!) 
and there were some of the houses of the original set- 
tlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow 
bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows 
and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 
a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who 
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter 
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the 
martial character of his ancestors. I have observed 
that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, 
moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained 
him such universal popularity; for those men are most 
apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are 
under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, 
doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the 
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain 
lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teach- 
ing the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
termagant wife may, therefore. In some respects, be 
considered a tolerable blessing; and if so. Rip Van 
Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it Is, that he was a great favorite among all 
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 



Rip Van Winkle 197 

amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and 
never failed, whenever they talked those matters over 
in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame 
Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to 
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories 
of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went 
dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop 
of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, 
and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; 
and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neigh- 
borhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insupera- 
ble aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for 
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy 
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, 
even though he should not be encouraged by a single 
nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder 
for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps 
and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neigh- 
bor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at 
all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building 
stone fences; the women of the village, too, used to em- 
ploy him to run their errands and to do such little odd 
jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for 
them. In a word Rip was ready to attend to anybody's 
business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and 
keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 



198 Stories of the Hudson 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country; everything about it went wrong, 
and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were 
continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go 
astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure 
to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the 
rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some outdoor work to do; so that though his patrimo- 
nial estate had dwindled away under his management, 
acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere 
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst 
conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 
belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen 
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a 
pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had 
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can 
be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather 
starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to him- 
self, he would have whistled life away in perfect con- 
tentment; but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin 
he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and 
night, her tongue was incessantly going and everything 



Rip Van Winkle 199 

he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of house- 
hold eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all 
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had 
grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook 
his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, 
however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; 
so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to 
the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, 
belongs to a henpecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much henpecked as his master; for dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of 
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as 
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but 
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all- 
besetting terrors of a woman's tongue.^ The moment 
Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to 
the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about 
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at 
Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom- 
stick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping 
precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as 
years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never 
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 
while he used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 



200 Stories of the Hudson 

village; which held its sessions on a bench before a 
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His 
Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth 
any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance 
an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 
traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the con- 
tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not 
to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the diction- 
ary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public 
events some months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land- 
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat 
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to 
avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so 
that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements 
as accurately as by a sundial. It is true he was rarely 
heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His 
adherents, however (for every great man has his ad- 
herents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to 
gather his opinions. When anything that was read or 
related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his 
pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and 
angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the 
smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and 
placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from 



Rip Van Winkle 201 

his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about 
his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect 
approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 
denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage 
and call the members all to naught; nor was that august 
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the 
da^ring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him 
outright with encouraging her husband in habits of 
idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and 
his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the 
farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand 
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some- 
times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym- 
pathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor 
Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's 
life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf 
would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, 
and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated 
the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 
parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his 
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes 
had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his gun. 
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 



202 Stories of the Hudson 

that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an open- 
ing between the trees he could overlook all the lower 
country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at 
a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, mov- 
ing on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection 
of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and 
there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing 
itself in the blue Highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was 
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that 
it would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of en- 
countering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
Winkle!" He looked around, but could see nothing 
but a crow winging its solitary flight across the moun- 
tain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, 
and turned again to descend, when he heard the same 
cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van 
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf 
bristled up his back, and, giving a low growl, skulked 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the 
glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing over 
him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and 
perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, 



Rip Van Winkle 203 

and bending under the weight of something he carried 
on his back. He was surprised to see any human being 
in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing 
it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his 
assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a 
short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist 
— several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, 
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a 
stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs 
for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. 
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaint- 
ance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutu- 
ally relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow 
gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. 
As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long 
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue 
out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty 
rocks, towards which their rugged path conducted. 
He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the 
muttering of one of those transient thundershowers 
which often take place in mountain heights, he pro- 
ceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a 
hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impend- 
ing trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 



204 Stories of the Hudson 

During the whole time Rip and his companion had 
labored on in silence, for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of 
liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, 
that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre 
was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- 
mous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large head, 
broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another 
seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted 
by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's 
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. 
There was one who seemed to be the commander. He 
was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten 
countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, 
and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole 
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish 
painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the 
village parson, and which had been brought over from 
Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys- 
terious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy 



Rip Van Winkle 205 

party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
suddenly desisted from their play, and gazed at him 
with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- 
couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned 
within him, and his knees smote together. His com- 
panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then re- 
turned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, 
to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the 
flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
draught. One taste provoked another, and he re- 
iterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length 
his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, 
his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 
rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The 
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, 
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the 
pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I 
have not slept here all night." He recalled the occur- 



2o6 Stories of the Hudson 

rences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a 
keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat 
among the rocks — the woebegone party at ninepins — 
the flagon — "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" 
thought Rip — "what excuse shall I make to Dame Van 
Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean 
well-oiled fowling piece, he found an old firelock lying 
by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling 
off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected 
that the grave roisterers of the mountain had put a 
trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had 
robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, 
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or 
partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his 
name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle 
and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last even- 
ing's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to 
demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found 
himself stiff^ in the joints, and wanting in his usual activ- 
ity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," 
thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit 
of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed timewithDame 
Van Winkle." With some difl&culty he got down into 
the glen: he found the gully up which he and his com- 
panion had ascended the preceding evening; but to 
his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming 
down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen 
with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to 
scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 



Rip Van Winkle 207 

thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and some- 
times tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines 
that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, 
and spread a kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces 
of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high 
impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tum- 
bling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad 
deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding 
forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only 
answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sport- 
ing high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny 
precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed 
to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. 
What was to be done.? the morning was passing away, 
and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He 
grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet 
his wife; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire- 
lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- 
prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with 
every one in the country round.. Their dress, too, was 
of a different fashion from that to which he was ac- 
customed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, 
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recur- 



2o8 Stories of the Hudson 

rence of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do 
the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his 
beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after 
him, and pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, 
not one of which he recognized for an old acquaintance, 
barked at him as he passed. The very village was 
altered; it was larger and more populous. There were 
rows of houses which he had never seen before, and 
those which had been his familiar haunts had disap- 
peared. Strange names were over the doors — strange 
faces at the windows — everything was strange. His 
mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether 
both he and the world around him were not bewitched. 
Surely this was his native village, which he had left but 
the day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — 
there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was 
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — 
Rip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," 
thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found his way to 
his own house, which he approached with silent awe, 
expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of 
Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay 
— the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the 
doors off the hinges. A half starved dog that looked 
like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by 
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed 
on. This was an unkind cut indeed — "My very dog," 
sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" 



Rip Van Winkle 209 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This 
desolateness overcame all his connubial fears — he 
called loudly for his wife and children — and the lonely 
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
windows, some of them broken and mended with old 
hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead 
of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked 
pole, with something on the top that looked like a red 
nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which 
was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this 
was strange and incomprehensible. He recognised on 
the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under 
which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but 
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red 
coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was 
held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was 
decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was 
painted in large characters. General Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of 
the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bust- 
ling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accus- 
tomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in 



2IO Stories of the Hudson 

vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of 
tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches, or Van Bum- 
mel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious- 
looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elec- 
tions — members of congress — liberty — Bunker Hill 
— heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which were 
a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van 
Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded 
round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing 
him partly aside, inquired "on which side he voted .^" 
Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on 
tiptoe, Inquired In his ear, "Whether he was Federal 
or Democrat .f"' Rip was equally at a loss to compre- 
hend the question, when a knowing, self-important old 
gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through 
the crowd, putting them to right and left with his 
elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van 
Winkle, with one arm a-kimbo, the other resting on his 
cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it 
were, into his very soul, demanded In an austere tone, 
"what brought him to the election with a gun on his 
shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant 



Rip Van Winkle 21 1 

to breed a riot in the village?" "Alas! gentlemen," 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet 
man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the 
king, God bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — 
"A Tory! a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away 
with him!" It was with great difficulty that the self- 
important man in the cocked hat restored order; and, 
having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded 
again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, 
and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came 
there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to 
keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! 
why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There 
was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used 
to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Butcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 
war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony 
Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the 
foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know — he never came 
back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went oflF to the wars too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress." 



212 Stories of the Hudson 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treat- 
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters 
which he could not understand; war — congress — 
Stony Point; — he had no courage to ask after any more 
friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here 
know Rip Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, 
"Oh to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning 
against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, 
and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com- 
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and 
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst 
of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat de- 
manded who he was, and what was his name.'' 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wits' end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — 
no that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was my- 
self last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and 
they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, 
and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or 
who I am!" 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing 
mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self- 
important man in the cocked hat retired with some 



Rip Van Winkle 213 

precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely 
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the 
grey-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry.. 
"Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old 
man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air 
of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a 
train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, 
my good woman.?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name.'*" 

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 
it's twenty years since he went away from home with 
his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog 
came home without him, but whether he shot himself, 
or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 
I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it 
with a faltering voice: 

"Where's your mother.'*" 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she 
broke a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New England 
peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli- 
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. 
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I 
am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winkle 
once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody know 
poor Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put heir hand to her brow, and 



214 Stories of the Hudson 

peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
"Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared 
when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each 
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks: and the 
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed 
down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — 
upon which there was a general shaking throughout 
the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of 
old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing 
up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of 
that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of 
the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant 
of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events 
and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected 
Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most 
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it 
was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, 
that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted 
by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great 
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and 
country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, 
with his crew of the Half Moon; being permitted in 
this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep 
a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called 
by his name. That his father had once seen them in 



Rip Van Winkle 215 

their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow 
of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the 
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout 
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for 
one of, the urchins that used to climb upon his back. 
As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, 
seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work 
on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition to 
attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred 
making friends among the rising generation, with whom 
he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, 
he took his place once more on the bench at the inn 
door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of 
the village, and a chronicler of the old times "before the 
war." It was some time before he could get into the 
regular track of gossip, or could be made to compre-" 
hend the strange events that had taken place during 
his torpor. How that there had been a Revolutionary 
War — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old 
England — and that, instead of being a subject of his 
Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen 



2i6 Stories of the Hudson 

of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; 
the changes of states and empires made but little im- 
pression on him; but there was one species of despot- 
ism under which he had long groaned, and that was — 
petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; 
he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and 
could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When- 
ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his 
head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; 
which might pass either for an expression of resigna- 
tion to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, 
to vary on some points every time he told it, which 
was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. 
It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have 
related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neigh- 
borhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pre- 
tended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip 
had been out of his head, and that this was one point 
on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch 
inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full 
credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder- 
storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskills, 
but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at 
their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish of all 
henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life 
hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a 
quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 



Rip Van Winkle 217 



NOTE 

The subjoined note which Mr. Knickerbocker appended to the 
tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of 
our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous 
events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger 
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were 
too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked 
with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very 
venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every 
other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take 
this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject 
taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the jus- 
tice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibili- 
ty of doubt. 

D.K." 



POSTSCRIPT 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of 
Mr. Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg or Catskill Mountains have always been a region 
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who 
influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the land- 
scape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled 
by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the 
highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day 
and night, to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung up 
the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into stars. In 
times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light sum- 



2i8 Stories of the Hudson 

mer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off 
from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded 
cotton, to float in the air, until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, 
they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the 
fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, 
however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst 
of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web, and when 
these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys. 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Cats- 
kill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all 
kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would 
assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered 
hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged 
rocks, and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast 
on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary 
bittern, with water snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the 
pond lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great 
awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not 
pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, 
a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where 
he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One 
of these he seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat, 
he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, 
which washed him away, and swept him down precipices, where he 
was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, 
and continues to flow to the present day, being the identical stream 
known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 



GOLDEN DREAMS 



TN the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and 
-*- blank — for I do not remember the precise date; 
however, it was somewhere in the early part of the last 
century, there lived in the ancient city of the Man- 
hattoes a worthy burgher, Wolfert Webber by name. 
He was descended from old Cobus Webber of the 
Brille in Holland, one of the original settlers, famous 
for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, and who 
came over to the province during the protectorship of 
Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called the Dreamer. 

The field in which Cobus Webber first planted him- 
self and his cabbages had remained ever since in the 
family, who continued in the same line of husbandry, 
with that praiseworthy perseverance for which our 
Dutch burghers are noted. The whole family genius, 
during several generations, was devoted to the study 
and development of this one noble vegetable; and to 
this concentration of intellect may doubtless be as- 
cribed the prodigious renown to which the Webber 
cabbages attained. 

The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted 
succession; and never did a line give more unquestiona- 
ble proofs of legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded to 
the looks, as well as the territory of his sire; and had 



220 Stories of the Hudson 

the portraits of this line of tranquil potentates been 
taken, they would have presented a row of heads 
marvellously resembling in shape and magnitude the 
vegetables over which they reigned. 

The seat of government continued unchanged in the 
family mansion: — a Dutch-built house, with a front, 
or rather gable-end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, 
with the customary iron weathercock at the top. 
Everything about the building bore the air of long- 
settled ease and security. Flights of martins peopled 
the little coops nailed against its walls, and swallows 
built their nests under the eaves; and every one knows 
that these house-loving birds bring good luck to the 
dwelling where they take up their abode. In a bright 
sunny morning in early summer, it was delectable to 
hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the 
pure sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the greatness 
and prosperity of the Webbers. 

Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent 
family vegetate under the shade of a mighty button- 
wood tree, which by little and little grew so great as 
entirely to overshadow their palace. The city gradu- 
ally spread its suburbs round their domain. Houses 
sprang up to interrupt their prospects. The rural lanes 
in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle and 
populousness of streets; in short, with all the habits of 
rustic life, they began to find themselves the inhabit- 
ants of a city. Still, however, they maintained their 
hereditary character and hereditary possessions, with 
all the tenacity of petty German princes in the midst 
of the empire. Wolfert was the last of the line, and 



Golden Dreams 221 

succeeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under 
the family tree, and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, 
a kind of rural potentate in the midst of a metropolis. 

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had 
taken unto himself a helpmate, one of that excellent 
kind, called stirring women; that is to say, she was 
one of those notable little housewives who are always 
busy when there is nothing to do. Her activity, how- 
ever, took one particular direction; her whole life 
seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether at home 
or abroad, walking or sitting, her needles were continu- 
ally in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her un- 
wearied industry she very nearly supplied her house- 
hold with stockings throughout the year. This worthy 
couple were blessed with one daughter, who was brought 
up with great tenderness and care; uncommon pains 
had been taken with her education so that she could 
stitch in every variety of way, make all kinds of pickles 
and preserves, and mark her own name on a sampler. 
The influence of her taste was seen also in the family 
garden, where the ornamental began to mingle with 
the useful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid 
hollyhocks bordered the cabbage beds; and gigantic 
sunflowers lolled their broad jolly faces over the fences, 
seeming to ogle most affectionately the passers-by. 

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over 
his paternal acres, peacefully and contentedly. Not 
but that, like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional 
cares and vexations. The growth of his native city 
sometimes caused him annoyance. His little territory 
gradually became hemmed in by streets and houses. 



222 Stories of the Hudson 

which intercepted air and sunshine. He was now and 
then subjected to the irruptions of the border popula- 
tion that infest the streets of a metropolis; who would 
make midnight forays into his dominions, and carry 
off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. 
Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and 
then, when the gate was left open, and lay all waste 
before them; and mischievous urchins would decapi- 
tate the illustrious sunflowers, the glory of the garden, 
as they lolled their heads so fondly over the walls. 
Still all these were petty grievances, which might now 
and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a summer 
breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill pond; but they 
could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. 
He would but seize a trusty staff, that stood behind 
the door. Issue suddenly out, anoint the back of the 
aggressor, whether pig or urchin, and then return within 
doors, marvellously refreshed and tranquillized. 

The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, how- 
ever, was the growing prosperity of the city. The 
expenses of living doubled and trebled, but he could 
not double and treble the magnitude of his cabbages; 
and the number of competitors prevented the Increase 
of price; thus, therefore, while every one around him 
grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and he could not, for 
the life of him, perceive how the evil was to be remedied. 

This growing care, which increased from day to day, 
had its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher; inso- 
much, that it at length Implanted two or three wrinkles 
in his brow, things unknown before in the family of the 
Webbers; and It seemed to pinch up the corners of his 



Golden Dreams 223 

cocked hat into an expression of anxiety, totally op- 
posite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low-crowned 
beavers of his illustrious progenitors. 

Perhaps even this would not have materially dis- 
turbed the serenity of his mind, had he had only him- 
self and his wife to care for; but there was his daughter 
gradually growing to maturity; and all the world 
knows that when daughters begin to ripen no fruit nor 
flower requires so much looking after. I have no talent 
at describing famale charms, else fain would I depict 
the progress of this little Dutch beauty. How her blue 
eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry lips redder 
and redder; and how she ripened and ripened, and 
rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen 
summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed 
ready to burst out of her bodice, like a half blown 
rosebud. 

Aji, well-a-day! could I but show her as she was then, 
tricked out on a Sunday morning, in the hereditary 
finery of the old Dutch clothespress, of which her 
mother had confided to her the key; the wedding- 
dress of her grandmother, modernized for use, with 
sundry ornaments, handed down as heirlooms in the 
family; her pale brown hair smoothed with butter- 
milk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair fore- 
head; the chain of yellow virgin gold, that encircled 
her neck; the little cross, that just rested at the en- 
trance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it would 
sanctify the place; the — but, pooh! — it is not for an 
old man like me to be prosing about female beauty; 
suffice it to say. Amy had attained her seventeenth 



224 Stories of the Hudson 

year. Long since had her sampler exhibited hearts in 
couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true 
lovers' knots worked in deep-blue silk; and it was evi- 
dent she began to languish for some more interesting 
occupation than rearing of sunflowers or pickling of 
cucumbers. 

At this critical period of female existence, when the 
heart within a damsel's bosom, like its emblem, the 
miniature which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed 
by a single image, a new visitor began to make his ap- 
pearance under the roof of Wolfert Webber. This was 
Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widom, but who 
could boast of more fathers than any lad In the province; 
for his mother had had four husbands, and this only 
child, so that though born in her last wedlock, he might 
fairly claim to be the tardy fruit of a long course of 
cultivation. This son of four fathers united the merits 
and the vigor of all his sires. If he had not a great 
family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one 
after him; for you had only to look at the fresh bux- 
om youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder 
of a mighty race. 

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor 
of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He 
filled the father's pipe when it was empty, gathered up 
the mother's knitting needle or ball of worsted when it 
fell to the ground; stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise- 
shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the daughter 
from the bright copper kettle that sang before the fire. 
All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import; 
but when true love is translated into Low Dutch, it is 



Golden Dreams 225 

in this way that it eloquently expresses itself. They 
were not lost upon the Webber family. The winning 
youngster found marvellous favor in the eyes of the 
mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the most staid 
and demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of 
approbation of his visits; the teakettle seemed to sing 
out a cheering note of welcome at his approach; and 
if the sly glances of the daughter might be rightly read, 
as she sat bridling and dimpling, and sewing by her 
mother's side, she was not a whit behind Dame Webber, 
or grimalkin, or the teakettle, in good will. 

Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. 
Profoundly wrapt up in meditation on the growth of 
the city and his cabbages, he sat looking in the fire, and 
puffing his pipe in silence. One night, however, as the 
gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted her lover to 
the outer door, and he, according to custom, took his 
parting salute, the smack resounded so vigorously 
through the long, silent entry, as to startle even the 
dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused to a new 
source of anxiety. It had never entered into his head 
that this mere child, who, as it seemed, but the other 
day had been climbing about his knees, and playing 
with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be think- 
ing of lovers and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, 
examined into the fact, and really found that while he 
had been dreaming of other matters, she had actually 
grown to be a woman, and what was worse, had fallen 
in love. Here arose new cares for Wolfert. He was a 
kind father, but he was a prudent man. The young 
man was a lively, stirring lad; but then he had neither 



226 Stories of the Hudson 

money nor land. Wolfert's ideas all ran in one channel; 
and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but to 
portion off the young couple with a corner of his cab- 
bage garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient 
for the support of his family. 

Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to 
nip this passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster 
the house; though sorely did It go against his fatherly 
heart, and many a silent tear did it cause in the bright 
eye of his daughter. She showed herself, however, a 
pattern of filial piety and obedience. She never pouted 
and sulked; she never flew in the face of parental 
authority; she never flew into a passion, nor fell into 
hysterics, as many romantic, novel-read young ladies 
do. Not she. Indeed! She was none such heroical 
rebellious trumpery, I'll warrant ye. On the contrary, 
she acquiesced like an obedient daughter, shut the 
street door in her lover's face, and if ever she did grant 
him an interview, it was either out of the kitchen 
window, or over the garden fence. 

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these matters in his 
mind, and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he 
wended his way one Saturday afternoon to a rural Inn, 
about two miles from the city. It was a favorite resort 
of the Dutch part of the community, from being always 
held by a Dutch line of landlords, and retaining an air 
and relish of the good old times. It was a Dutch-built 
house, that had probably been a countryseat of some 
opulent burgher in the early times of the settlement. 
It stood near a point of land called Corlear's Hook, 
which stretches out into the Sound, and against which 



Golden Dreams 227 

the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary 
rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazy man- 
sion was distinguished from afar, by a grove of elms 
and sycamores, that seemed to wave a hospitable invi- 
tation; while a few weeping willows, with their dark, 
drooping foliage, resembling fallen waters, gave an idea 
of coolness, that rendered it an attractive spot, during 
the heats of summer. 

Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old in- 
habitants of the Manhattoes, where, while some played 
at shuffleboard, and quoits, and ninepins, others smoked 
a deliberate pipe, and talked over public affairs. 

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that 
Wolfert made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms 
and willows was stripped of its leaves, which whirled 
in rustling eddies about the fields. The ninepin alley 
was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the day 
had driven the company within doors. As it was Sat- 
urday afternoon, the habitual club was in session, com- 
posed principally of regular Dutch burghers, though 
mingled occasionally with persons of various character 
and country, as is natural in a place of such motley 
population. 

Beside the fireplace, in a huge, leather-bottomed 
armchair, sat the dictator of this little world, the ven- 
erable Rem, or as it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye. 
He was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious for the 
antiquity of his line; his great-grandmother having 
been the first white child born in the province. But he 
was still more illustrious for his wealth and dignity; 
he had long filled the noble office of alderman, and was 



228 Stories of the Hudson 

a man to whom the governor himself took off his hat. 
He had maintained possession of the leather-bottomed 
chair from time immemorial, and had gradually waxed 
in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in the 
course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His 
word was decisive with his subjects; for he was so rich 
a man, that he was never expected to support any 
opinion by argument. The landlord waited on him 
with peculiar officiousness; not that he paid better 
than his neighbors, but then the coin of a rich man 
seems always to be so much more acceptable. The 
landlord had ever a pleasant word and a joke, to insinu- 
ate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm 
never laughed, and, indeed, ever maintained a mastiff- 
like gravity, and even surliness of aspect, yet he now 
and then rewarded mine host with a token of approba- 
tion, which though nothing more nor less than a kind 
of grunt, still delighted the landlord more than a broad 
laugh from a poorer man. 

"This will be a rough night for the money-diggers," 
said mine host, as a gust of wind howled round the house 
and rattled at the windows. 

"What! are they at their work again .^" said an 
English half pay captain, with one eye, who was a very 
frequent attendant at the inn. 

"Aye, are they," said the landlord, "and well may 
they be. They've had luck of late. They say a great 
pot of money has been dug up in the fields, just behind 
Stuyvesant's orchard. Folks think it must have been 
buried there in old times, by Peter Stuyvesant, the 
Dutch governor." 



Golden Dreams 229 

"Fudge!" said the one-eyed man of war, as he added 
a small portion of water to a bottom of brandy. 

"Well, you may believe it, or not, as you please," 
said mine host, somewhat nettled, "but everybody 
knows that the old governor buried a large deal of his 
money at the time of the Dutch troubles, when the 
English redcoats seized on the province. They say, 
too, the old gentleman walks, aye, and in the very same 
dress that he wears in the picture that hangs up in the 
family house." 

"Fudge!" said the half pay officer. 

"Fudge, if you please! — But didn't Corney Van 
Zandt see him at midnight, stalking about in the 
meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his 
hand, that flashed like fire.? And what can he be walk- 
ing for, but because people have been troubling the 
place where he buried his money in old times.?" 

Here the landlord was interrupted by several gut- 
tural sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening that he 
was laboring with the unusual production of an idea. 
As he was too great a man to be slighted by a prudent 
publican, mine host respectfully paused until he should 
deliver himself. The corpulent frame of this mighty 
burgher now gave all the symptoms of a volcanic 
mountain on the point of an eruption. First, there 
was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike an 
earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco- 
smoke from that crater, his mouth; then there was a 
kind of rattle in the throat, as if the idea were working 
its way up through a region of phlegm; then there were 
several disjointed members of a sentence thrown out, 



230 Stories of the Hudson 

ending in a cough; at length his voice forced its way 
in the slow, but absolute tone of a man who feels the 
weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; every portion 
of his speech being marked by a testy puff of tobacco- 
smoke. 

"Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant's walking? — 
puiF — ^Have people no respect for persons? — puff — 
puif — Peter Stuyvesant knew better what to do with 
his money than to bury it — puif — I know the Stuy- 
vesant family — puff — every one of them — puif — not a 
more respectable family in the province — puif — old 
standards — puif — warm householders — puif — none of 
your upstarts — puif — puff — puif. — Don't talk to me of 
Peter Stuyvesant's walking — puif — puif — puif — puif." 

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, 
clasped up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, 
and redoubled his smoking, with such vehemence that 
the cloudy volumes soon wreathed round his head, as 
the smoke envelopes the awful summit of Mount Etna. 

A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this 
very rich man. The subject, however, was too inter- 
esting to be readily abandoned. The conversation soon 
broke forth again from the lips of Peechy Prauw Van 
Hook, the chronicler of the club, one of those prosing, 
narrative old men, who seem to be troubled with an 
incontinence of words, as they grow old. 

Peechy could, at any time, tell as many stories in an 
evening as his hearers could digest in a month. He now 
resumed the conversation, by aiiirming that, to his 
knowledge, money had at diiferent times been digged 
up in various parts of the island. The lucky persons 



Golden Dreams 231 

who had discovered them had always dreamt of them 
three times beforehand, and what was worthy of re- 
mark, those treasures had never been found but by 
some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which 
clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen 
in the olden time. 

"Fiddlestick with your Dutchmen!" cried the half 
pay officer. "The Dutch had nothing to do with them. 
They were all buried by Kidd the pirate, and his crew." 

Here a keynote was touched that roused the whole 
company. The name of Captain Kidd was like a talis- 
man in those times, and was associated with a thousand 
marvellous stories. 

The half pay officer took the lead, and in his narra- 
tions fathered upon Kidd all the plunderings and ex- 
ploits of Morgan, Blackbeard, and the whole list of 
bloody buccaneers. 

The officer was a man of great weight among the 
peaceable members of the club, by reason of his war- 
like character and gunpowder tales. All his golden 
stories of Kidd, however, and of the booty he had 
buried, were obstinately rivalled by the tales of Peechy 
Prauw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors 
to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched every 
field and shore in the neighborhood with the hidden 
wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his contemporaries. 

Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert 
Webber. He returned pensively home, full of magnifi- 
cent ideas. The soil of his native island seemed to be 
turned into gold dust, and every field to teem with 
treasure. His head almost reeled at the thought how 



232 Stories of the Hudson 

often he must have heedlessly rambled over places 
where countless sums lay, scarcely covered by the turf 
beneath his feet. His mind was in an uproar with this 
whirl of new ideas. As he came In sight of the venera- 
ble mansion of his forefathers, and the little realm 
where the Webbers had so long and so contentedly 
flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness of his 
destiny. 

"Unlucky Wolfert!" exclaimed he; "others can go 
to bed and dream themselves into whole mines of 
wealth; they have but to seize a spade In the morning, 
and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but thou must 
dream of hardships, and rise to poverty — must dig thy 
field from year's end to year's end, and yet raise noth- 
ing but cabbages!" 

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; 
and It was long before the golden visions that disturbed 
his brain permitted him to sink Into repose. The same 
visions, however, extended Into his sleeping thoughts, 
and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he 
had discovered an Immense treasure in the centre of his 
garden. At every stroke of the spade he laid bare a 
golden ingot; diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust; 
bags of money turned up their bellies, corpulent with 
pleces-of-eight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, 
wedged close with moidores, ducats, and pistareens, 
yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited forth 
their glittering contents. 

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no 
heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared 
so paltry and profitless; but sat all day long In the 



Golden Dreams 233 

chimney corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps 
of gold in the fire. The next night his dream was re- 
peated. He was again in his garden, digging, and laying 
open stores of hidden wealth. There was something 
very singular in this repetition. He passed another 
day of reverie, and though it was cleaning-day, and the 
house, as usual in Dutch households, completely topsy- 
turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general uproar. 

The third night he went to bed with a palpitating 
heart. He put on his red nightcap wrong side out- 
wards, for good luck. It was deep midnight before his 
anxious mind could settle itself into sleep. Again the 
golden dream was repeated, and again he saw his garden 
teeming with ingots and money bags. 

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilder- 
ment. A dream three times repeated was never known 
to lie; and if so, his fortune was made. 

In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind 
part before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. 
He no longer doubted that a huge store of money lay 
buried somewhere in his cabbage field, coyly waiting 
to be sought for; and he repined at having so long been 
scratching about the surface of the soil Instead of 
digging to the centre. 

He took his seat at the breakfast table full of these 
speculations; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold 
into his tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap- 
jacks, begged her to help herself to a doubloon. 

His grand care now was how to secure this immense 
treasure without its being known. Instead of working 
regularly in his grounds in the daytime, he now stole 



234 Stories of the Hudson 

from his bed at night, and with spade and pickaxe, 
went to work to rip up and dig about his paternal acres, 
from one end to the other. In a Uttle time the whole 
garden, which had presented such a goodly and regular 
appearance, with its phalanx of cabbages, like a vege- 
table army in battle array, was reduced to a scene of 
devastation; while the relentless Wolfert, with night- 
cap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, stalked 
through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying angel of 
his own vegetable world. 

Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the 
preceding night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, 
from the tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously 
rooted from their quiet beds like worthless weeds, and 
left to wither in the sunshine. In vain Wolfert's wife 
remonstrated; in vain his darling daughter wept over 
the destruction of some favorite marigold. "Thou 
shalt have gold of another guess sort," he would cry, 
chucking her under the chin; "thou shalt have a string 
of crooked ducats for thy wedding necklace, my child." 
His family began really to fear that the poor man's wits 
were diseased. He muttered in his sleep at night about 
mines of wealth, about pearls and diamonds and bars 
of gold. In the daytime he was moody and abstracted, 
and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber held 
frequent councils with all the old women of the neigh- 
borhood; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them 
might be seen wagging their white caps together round 
her door, while the poor woman made some piteous 
recital. The daughter too was fain to seek for. more 
frequent consolation from the stolen interviews of her 



Golden Dreams 235 

favored swain Dirk Waldron. The delectable little 
Dutch songs with which she used to dulcify the house 
grew less and less frequent, and she would forget her 
sewing and look wistfully in her father's face, as he sat 
pondering by the fireside. Wolfert caught her eye one 
day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment was 
roused from his golden reveries. — "Cheer up, my girl," 
said he, exultingly, "why dost thou droop .^ — thou shalt 
hold up thy head one day with the Brinkerhoffs and the 
Schermerhorns, the Van Horns and the Van Dams. — 
By Saint Nicholas, but the patroon himself shall be 
glad to get thee for his son!" 

Amy shook her head at this vainglorious boast, and 
was more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the 
good man's intellect. 

In the meantime Wolfert went on digging and dig- 
ging; but the field was extensive, and as his dream had 
indicated no precise spot, he had to dig at random. 
The winter set in before one tenth of the scene of prom- 
ise had been explored. 

The ground became frozen hard, and the nights too 
cold for the labors of the spade. 

No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of 
spring loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe 
in the meadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with 
renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours of industry 
were reversed. 

Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and 
setting out his vegetables, he remained thoughfully idle, 
until the shades of night summoned him to his secret 
labors. In this way he continued to dig from night to 



236 Stories of the Hudson 

night, and week to week, and month to month, but not 
a stiver did he find. On the contrary, the more he 
digged, the poorer he grew. The rich soil of his garden 
was digged away, and the sand and gravel from be- 
neath were thrown to the surface, until the whole field 
presented an aspect of sandy barrenness. 

In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on. 
The little frogs which had piped in the meadows in 
early spring, croaked as bullfrogs during the summer 
heats, and then sank into silence. The peach tree 
budded, blossomed, and bore its fruit. The swallows 
and martins came, twittered about the roof, built their 
nests, reared their young, held their congress along the 
eaves, and then winged their flight in search of another 
spring. The caterpillar spun its winding sheet, dangled 
in it from the great buttonwood tree before the house; 
turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of 
summer, and disappeared; and finally the leaves of the 
buttonwood tree turned yellow, then brown, then 
rustled one by one to the ground, and whirling about in 
little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter 
was at hand. 

Wolfert gradually woke from his dream of wealth as 
the year declined. He had reared no crop for the supply 
of his household during the sterility of winter. The 
season was long and severe, and for the first time the 
family was really straitened in its comforts. By degrees 
a revulsion of thought took place in Wolfert's mind, 
common to those whose golden dreams have been dis- 
turbed by pinching realities. The Idea gradually stole 
upon him that he should come to want. He already 



Golden Dreams 237 

considered himself one of the most unfortunate men In 
the province, having lost such an Incalculable amount 
of undiscovered treasure, and now, when thousands of 
pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shil- 
lings and pence was cruel in the extreme. 

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went 
about with a money-seeking air, his eyes bent down- 
wards into the dust, and carrying his hands in his 
pockets, as men are apt to do when they have nothing 
else to put into them. He could not even pass the city 
almshouse without giving it a rueful glance, as if 
it were destined to be his future abode. 

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occa- 
sioned much speculation and remark. For a long time 
he was suspected of being crazy, and then everybody 
pitied him; at length It began to be suspected that he 
was poor, and then everybody avoided him. 

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him 
outside of the door when he called, entertained him 
hospitably on the threshold, pressed him warmly by 
the hand at parting, shook their heads as he walked 
away, with the kind-hearted expression of "Poor 
Wolfert," and turned a corner nimbly. If by chance 
they saw him approaching as they walked the streets. 
Even the barber and the cobbler of the neighborhood, 
and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the 
poorest and merriest rogues In the world, eyed him with 
that abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack 
of means; and there Is not a doubt but their pockets 
would have been at his command, only that they hap- 
pened to be empty. 



238 Stories of the Hudson 

Thus everybody deserted the Webber mansion, as if 
poverty were contagious, like the plague; everybody 
but honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his stolen 
visits to the daughter, and indeed seemed to wax more 
affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress were in the 
wane. 

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had fre- 
quented his old resort, the rural inn. He was taking a 
long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over 
his wants and disappointments, when his feet took 
instinctively their wonted direction, and on awaking 
out of a reverie, he found himself before the door of the 
inn. For some moments he hesitated whether to enter, 
but his heart yearned for companionship; and where 
can a ruined man find better companionship than at a 
tavern, where there is neither sober example nor sober 
advice to put him out of countenance .f* 

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of the 
inn at their usual posts, and seated in their usual places; 
but one was missing, the great Ramm Rapelye, who 
for many years had filled the leather-bottomed chair 
of state. His place was supplied by a stranger, who 
seemed, however, completely at home in the chair and 
the tavern. He was rather under size, but deep chested, 
square, and muscular. His broad shoulders, double 
joints, and bow knees, gave tokens of prodigious 
strength. His face was dark and weather-beaten; a 
deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost 
divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, 
through which his teeth shone like a bulldog's. A mop 
of iron-grey hair gave a grizzly finish to his hard-favored 



Golden Dreams 239 

visage. His dress was of an amphibious character. 
He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, and 
cocked in martial style, on one side of his head; a rusty 
blue military coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair 
of short petticoat trowsers, or rather breeches, for they 
were gathered up at the knees. He ordered everybody 
about him with an authoritative air; talked in a brat- 
tling voice, that sounded like the crackling of thorns 

under a pot; d d the landlord and servants with 

perfect impunity, and was waited upon with greater 
obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty 
Ramm himself. 

Wolfert's curiosity was awakened to know who and 
what was the stranger who had thus usurped absolute 
sway in this ancient domain. Peechy Prauw took him 
aside into a remote corner of the hall, and there, in an 
under-voice, and with great caution, imparted to him 
all that he knew on the subject. The inn had been 
aroused several months before, on a dark, stormy night, 
by repeated long shouts, that seemed like the bowlings 
of a wolf. They came from the waterside; and at 
length were distinguished to be hailing the house in a 
seafaring manner, "House ahoy!" The landlord turned 
out with his head waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand 
boy — that is to say, with his old negro. Cuff. On ap- 
proaching the place whence the voice proceeded, they 
found this amphibious-looking personage at the water's 
edge, quite alone, and seated on a great oaken sea chest. 
How he came there, whether he had been set on shore 
from some boat, or had floated to land on his chest, 
nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed to an- 



240 Stories of the Hudson 

swer questions, and there was something in his looks 
and manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice 
it to say, he took possession of a corner room of the inn, 
to which his chest was removed with great difficulty. 
Here he had remained ever since, keeping about the 
inn and its vicinity. Sometimes, it is true, he disap- 
peared, for one, two, or three days at a time, going and 
returning without giving any notice or account of his 
movements. He always appeared to have plenty of 
money, though often of a very strange outlandish coin- 
age, and he regularly paid his bill every evening before 
turning in. 

He had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having 
slung a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and 
decorated the walls with rusty pistols and cutlasses of 
foreign workmanship. A great part of his time was 
passed in this room, seated by the window, which com- 
manded a wide view of the Sound, a short old-fashioned 
pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum toddy at his elbow, 
and a pocket telescope in his hand, with which he recon- 
noitred every boat that moved upon the water. Large 
square-rigged vessels seemed to excite but little atten- 
tion, but the moment he descried anything with a 
shoulder-of-mutton sail, or that a barge, or yawl, or 
jolly-boat hove in sight, up went the telescope, and he 
examined it with the most scrupulous attention. 

All this might have passed without much notice, for 
in those times the province was so much the resort of 
adventurers of all characters and climes, that any oddity 
in dress or behavior attracted but small attention. In 
a little while, however, this strange sea monster, thus 



Golden Dreams 241 

strangely cast upon dry land, began to encroach upon 
the long-established customs and customers of the place, 
and to interfere in a dictatorial manner in the affairs of 
the ninepin alley and the barroom, until, in the end, 
he usurped an absolute command over the whole inn. 
It was all in vain to attempt to withstand his authority. 
He was not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous and 
peremptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a 
quarter-deck; and there was a dare-devil air about 
everything he said and did, that inspired a wariness in 
all bystanders. Even the half pay officer, so long the 
hero of the club, was soon silenced by him, and the 
quiet burghers stared with wonder at seeing their in- 
flammable man of war so readily and quietly ex- 
tinguished. 

And then the tales that he would tell were enough to 
make a peaceable man's hair stand on end. There was 
not a sea fight, nor marauding nor freebooting adven- 
ture that had happened within the last twenty years, 
but he seemed perfectly versed in it. He delighted to 
talk of the exploits of the buccaneers in the West Indies 
and on the Spanish Main. How his eyes would glisten 
as he described the waylaying of treasure ships, the 
desperate fights, yardarm and yardarm — broadside 
and broadside — the boarding and capturing of huge 
Spanish galleons! With what chuckling relish would 
he describe the descent upon some rich Spanish colony; 
the rifling of a church; the sacking of a convent! You 
would have thought you heard some gormandizer 
dilating upon the roasting of a savory goose at Michael- 
mas as he described the roasting of some Spanish don 



242 Stories of the Hudson 

to make him discover his treasure — a detail given with 
a minuteness that made every rich old burgher present 
turn uncomfortably in his chair. All this would be told 
with infinite glee, as if he considered it an excellent 
joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer in 
the face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would 
be fain to laugh out of sheer faint-heartedness. If any 
one, however, pretended to contradict him in any of 
his stories he was on fire in an instant. His very cocked 
hat assumed a momentary fierceness, and seemed to 
resent the contradiction. "How the devil should you 
know as well as I.^ — I tell you it was as I say;" and he 
would at the same time let slip a broadside of thunder- 
ing oaths and tremendous sea phrases, such as had 
never been heard before within these peaceful walls. 

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that 
he knew more of these stories than mere hearsay. Day 
after day their conjectures concerning him grew more 
and more wild and fearful. The strangeness of his 
arrival, the strangeness of his manners, the mystery 
that surrounded him, all made him something incom- 
prehensible in their eyes. He was a kind of monster of 
the deep to them — he was a merman — he was a behe- 
moth — he was a leviathan — in short, they knew not 
what he was. 

The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea-urchin 
at length grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter 
of persons; he contradicted the richest burghers with- 
out hesitation; he took possession of the sacred elbow 
chair, which, time out of mind, had been the seat of 
sovereignty of the illustrious Ramm Rapelye. Nay, 



Golden Dreams 243 

he even went so far in one of his rough jocular moods, 
as to slap that mighty burgher on the back, drink his 
toddy, and wink in his face, a thing scarcely to be be- 
lieved. From this time Ramm Rapelye appeared no 
more at the inn; his example was followed by several 
of the most eminent customers, who were too rich to 
tolerate being bullied out of their opinions, or being 
obliged to laugh at another man's jokes. The landlord 
was almost in despair; but he knew not how to get rid 
of this sea monster and his sea chest, who seemed both 
to have grown like fixtures, or excrescences, on his 
establishment. 

Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wol- 
fert's ear, by the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held 
him by the button, in a corner of the hall, casting a 
wary glance now and then towards the door of the bar- 
room, lest he should be overheard by the terrible hero 
of his tale. 

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in 
silence; impressed with profound awe of this unknown, 
so versed in freebooting history. It was to him a won- 
derful instance of the revolutions of mighty empires, to 
find the venerable Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from 
the throne, and a rugged tarpauling dictating from his 
elbow chair, hectoring the patriarchs, and filling this 
tranquil little realm with brawl and bravado. 

The stranger was on this evening in a more than 
usually communicative mood, and was narrating a 
number of astounding stories of plunderings and burn- 
ings on the high seas. He dwelt upon them with a 
peculiar relish, heightening the frightful particulars in 



244 Stories of the Hudson 

proportion to their effect on his peaceful auditors. He 
gave a swaggering detail of the capture of a Spanish 
merchantman. She was lying becalmed during a long 
summer's day, just off from an island which was one of 
the lurking places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred 
her with their spyglasses from the shore, and ascer- 
tained her character and force. At night a picked crew 
of daring fellows set off for her in a whaleboat. They 
approached with muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly 
with the undulations of the sea, and her sails flapping 
against the masts. They were close under her stern 
before the guard on deck was aware of their approach. 
The alarm was given; the pirates threw hand grenades 
on deck, and sprang up the main chains sword in hand. 

The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion; some 
were shot down, others took refuge in the tops; others 
were driven overboard and drowned, while others 
fought hand to hand from the main deck to the quarter- 
deck, disputing gallantly every inch of ground. There 
were three Spanish gentlemen on board with their 
ladies, who made the most desperate resistance. They 
defended the companionway, cut down several of their 
assailants, and fought like very devils, for they were 
maddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the cabin. 
One of the dons was old, and soon dispatched. The 
other two kept their ground vigorously, even though 
the captain of the pirates was among the assailants. 
Just then there was a shout of victory from the main 
deck. "The ship is ours!" cried the pirates. 

One of the dons immediately dropped his sword and 
surrendered; the other, who was a hot-headed young- 



Golden Dreams 245 

ster, and just married, gave the captain a slash in the 
face that laid all open. The captain just made out to 
articulate the words "No quarter." 

"And what did they do with their prisoners?" said 
Peechy Prauw, eagerly. 

"Threw them all overboard!" was the answer. A 
dead pause followed the reply. Peechy Prauw sank 
quietly back, like a man who had unwarily stolen upon 
the lair of a sleeping lion. The honest burghers cast 
fearful glances at the deep scar slashed across the visage 
of the stranger, and moved their chairs a little further 
off. The seaman, however, smoked on without moving 
a muscle, as though he either did not perceive or did 
not regard the unfavorable effect he had produced upon 
his hearers. 

The half pay officer was the first to break the silence, 
for he was continually tempted to make ineffectual head 
against this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost 
consequence in the eyes of his ancient companions. He 
now tried to match the gunpowder tales of the stranger 
by others equally tremendous. Kidd, as usual, was his 
hero, concerning whom he seemed to have picked up 
many of the floating traditions of the province. The 
seaman had always evinced a settled pique against the 
one-eyed warrior. On this occasion he listened with 
peculiar impatience. He sat with one arm a-kimbo, 
the other elbow on a table, the hand holding on to the 
small pipe he was pettishly puffing, his legs crossed, 
drumming with one foot on the ground, and casting 
every now and then the side-glance of a basilisk at the 
prosing captain. At length the latter spoke of Kidd's 



246 Stories of the Hudson 

having ascended the Hudson with some of his crew, to 
land his plunder in secrecy. 

"Kidd up the Hudson!" burst forth the seaman, with 
a tremendous oath — "Kidd never was up the Hudson." 

"I tell you he was," said the other. "Aye, and they 
say he buried a quantity of treasure on the little flat 
that runs out into the river called the Devil's Dans 
Kammer." 

"The Devil's Dans Kammer in your teeth!" cried 
the seaman. " I tell you Kidd never was up the Hudson. 
What a plague do you know of Kidd and his haunts i*" 

"What do I know.^" echoed the half pay officer. 
"Why, I was in London at the time of his trial; aye, 
and I had the pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execu- 
tion Dock." 

"Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a 
fellow hanged as ever trod shoe-leather. Aye," putting 
his face nearer to that of the officer, "and there was 
many a landlubber looked on that might much better 
have swung in his stead."] 

The half pay officer was silenced, but the indigna- 
tion thus pent up in his bosom glowed with intense 
vehemence in his single eye, which kindled like a coal. 

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, ob- 
served that the gentleman certainly was in the right. 
Kidd never did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed 
in any of those parts, though many affirmed such to be 
the fact. It was Bradish and others of the buccaneers 
who had buried money; some said in Turtle Bay, others 
on Long Island, others in the neighborhood of Hell 
Gate. "Indeed," added he, "I recollect an adventure 



Golden Dreams 247 

of Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, which 
some think had something to do with the buccaneers. 
As we are all friends here, and as it will go no further, 
I'll tell it to you. 

"Upon a dark night many years ago, as Black Sam 
was returning from fishing in Hell Gate " 

Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden 
movement from the unknown, who, laying his iron fist 
on the table, knuckles downward, with a quiet force 
that indented the very boards, and looking grimly over 
his shoulder, with the grin of an angry bear — "Heark'ee, 
neighbor," said he, with significant nodding of the head, 
"you'd better let the buccaneers and their money alone 
— they're not for old men and old women to meddle 
with. They fought hard for their money; they gave 
body and soul for it, and wherever it lies buried, depend 
upon it he must have a tug with the devil who gets it!" 

This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank 
silence throughout the room. Peechy Prauw shrank 
within himself, and even the one-eyed officer turned 
pale. Wolfert, who from a dark corner of the room had 
listened with intense eagerness to all this talk about 
buried treasure, looked with mingled awe and reverence 
at this bold buccaneer, for such he really suspected him 
to be. There was a chinking of gold and a sparkling of 
jewels in all his stories about the Spanish Main, that 
gave a value to every period, and Wolfert would have 
given anything for the rummaging of the ponderous 
sea chest, which his imagination crammed full of golden 
chalices, crucifixes, and jolly round bags of doubloons. 

The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company 



248 Stories of the Hudson 

was at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled 
out a prodigious watch of curious and ancient workman- 
ship, and which in Wolfert's eyes had a decidedly 
Spanish look. On touching a spring it struck ten 
o'clock; upon which the sailor called for his reckoning, 
and having paid it out of a handful of outlandish coin, 
he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and without 
taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, mutter- 
ing to himself, as he stamped up stairs to his chamber. 

It was some time before the company could recover 
from the silence into which they had been thrown. The 
very footsteps of the stranger, which were heard now 
and then as he traversed his chamber, inspired awe. 

Still the conversation in which they had been en- 
gaged was too interesting not to be resumed. A heavy 
thundergust had gathered up unnoticed while they 
were lost in talk, and the torrents of rain that fell for- 
bade all thoughts of setting off for home until the storm 
should subside. They drew nearer together, therefore, 
and entreated the worthy Peechy Prauw to continue 
the tale which had been so discourteously interrupted. 
He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone 
scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally 
by the rolling of the thunder, and he would pause every 
now and then, and listen with evident awe, as he heard 
the heavy footsteps of the stranger pacing overhead. 

The following is the purport of his story: 

Everybody knows Black Sam, the old negro fisher- 
man, or, as he is commonly called. Mud Sam, who has 
fished about the Sound for the last half century. It is 
now many years since Sam, who was then as active a 



Golden Dreams 249 

young negro as any In the province, and worked on the 
farm of Killlan Suydam, on Long Island, having fin- 
ished his day's work at an early hour, was fishing, one 
still summer evening, just about the neighborhood of 
Hell Gate. 

He was In a light skiff, and being well acquainted 
with the currents and eddies, had shifted his station, 
according to the shifting of the tide, from the Hen and 
Chickens to the Hog's Back, from the Hog's Back to 
the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying Pan; but In 
the eagerness of his sport he did not see that the tide 
was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the whirlpools 
and eddies warned him of his danger; and he had some 
difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks and 
breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell's Island. 
Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of 
the tide, to enable him to return homewards. As the 
night set in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds 
came bundling up In the west, and now and then a 
growl of thunder or a flash of lightning told that a sum- 
mer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, 
under the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting along, 
came to a snug nook, just under a steep beetling rock, 
where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot 
out from a cleft, and spread its broad branches like a 
canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along; 
the wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain 
rattled among the leaves; the thunder bellowed worse 
than that which is now bellowing; the lightning seemed 
to lick up the surges of the stream; but Sam, snugly 
sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouching in his skiff, 



250 Stones of the Hudson 

rocking upon the billows until he fell asleep. \ When he 
woke all was quiet. The gust had passed 4wa7, and 
only now and then a faint gleam of lightning in the 
east showed which way it had gone. The night was 
dark and moonless, and from the state of the tide Sam 
concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point 
of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he 
saw a light gleaming along the water from a distance, 
which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near 
he perceived it came from a lantern in the bow of a boat 
gliding along under shadow of the land. It pulled up 
in a small cove, close to where he was. A man jumped 
on shore, and searching about with the lantern, ex- 
claimed, "This is the place — here's the iron ring." The 
boat was then made fast, and the man returning on 
board, assisted his comrades in conveying something 
heavy on shore. As the Hght gleamed among them, 
Sam saw that they were five stout desperate-looking 
fellows, in red woollen caps, with a leader in a three- 
cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with 
dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They talked low to 
one another, and occasionally swore in some outlandish 
tongue which he could not understand. 

On landing they made their way among the bushes, 
taking turns to relieve each other in lugging their burden 
up the rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now fully 
aroused; so, leaving his skiff, he clambered silently up 
a ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped 
to rest for a moment, and the leader was looking about 
among the bushes with his lantern. "Have you brought 
the spades.'"' said one. "They are here," replied an- 



Golden Dreams 251 

other, who had them on his shoulder. "We must dig 
deep, where there will be no risk of discovery," said a 
third. 

A cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied he 
saw before him a gang of murderers, about to bury 
their victim. His knees smote together. In his agita- 
tion he shook the branch of a tree with which he was sup- 
porting himself as he looked over the edge of the cliff. 

"What's that?" cried one of the gang. "Some one 
stirs among the bushes!" 

The lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. 
One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it 
towards the very place where Sam was standing. He 
stood motionless — breathless; expecting the next mo- 
ment to be his last. Fortunately his dingy complexion 
was in his favor, and made no glare among the leaves. 

" 'Tis no one," said the man with the lantern. "What 
a plague! you would not fire off your pistol and alarm 
the country!" 

The pistol was uncocked; the burden was resumed, 
and the party slowly toiled along the bank. Sam 
watched them as they went; the light sending back 
fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was 
not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured 
to draw breath freely. He now thought of getting 
back to his boat, and making his escape out of the 
reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity was 
all-powerful. He hesitated and lingered and listened. 
By and by he heard the strokes of spades. "They are 
digging the grave!" said he to himself; and the cold 
sweat started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a 



252 Stones of the Hudson 

spade, as it sounded through the silent groves, went to 
his heart; it was evident there was as Httle noise made 
as possible; everything had an air of terrible mystery 
and secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible — 
a tale of murder was a treat for him; and he was a con- 
stant attendant at executions. He could not resist an 
impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer to the 
scene of mystery, and overlook the midnight fellows at 
their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, 
inch by inch; stepping with the utmost care among the 
dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He 
came at length to where a steep rock intervened be- 
tween him and the gang; for he saw the light of their 
lantern shining up against the branches of the trees on 
the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up 
the surface of the rock, and raising his head above its 
naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, 
and so near, that though he dreaded discovery, he 
dared not withdraw lest the least movement should be 
heard. In this way he remained, with his round black 
face peering above the edge of the rock, like the sun 
just emerging above the edge of the horizon, or the 
round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. 

The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the 
grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing 
the turf. This done, they scattered dry leaves over the 
place. "And now," s^aid the leader, "I defy the devil 
himself to find it out." 

"The murderers!" exclaimed Sam, involuntarily. 

The whole gang started, and looking up beheld the 
round black head of Sam just above them; his white 



Golden Dreams 253 

eyes strained half out of their orbits; his white teeth 
chattering, and his whole visage shining with cold 
perspiration. 

"We're discovered!" cried one. 

"Down with him!" cried another. 

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause 
for the report. He scrambled over rock and stone, 
through brush and brier; rolled down banks like a 
hedgehog; scrambled up others like a catamount. In 
every direction he heard some one or other of the gang 
hemming him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge 
along the river; one of the red-caps was hard behind 
him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly in his way; 
it seemed to cut off all retreat, when fortunately he 
espied the strong cord-like branch of a grapevine reach- 
ing half way down it. He sprang at it with the force of 
a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and being 
young and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the 
summit of the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against 
the sky, when the red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. 
The ball whistled by Sam's head. With the lucky 
thought of a man in an emergency, he uttered a yell, 
fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a 
fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a loud splash 
into the river. 

"I've done his business," said the red-cap to one or 
two of his comrades as they arrived panting. "He'll 
tell no tales, except to the fishes in the river." 

His pursuers now turned to meet their companions. 
Sam sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let 
himself quietly into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, 



254 Stones of the Hudson 

and abandoned himself to the rapid current, which in 
that place runs like a mill-stream, and soon swept him 
off from the neighborhood. It was not, however, until 
he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply 
his oars; when he made his skiff dart like an arrow 
through the strait of Hell Gate, never heeding the danger 
of Pot, Frying Pan, nor Hog's Back itself: nor did he 
feel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in 
bed in the cockloft of the ancient farmhouse of the 
Suydams. 

Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused to take 
breath, and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that 
stood at his elbow. His auditors remained with open 
mouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of 
swallows for an additional mouthful. 

"And is that all.'"' exclaimed the half pay officer. 

"That's all that belongs to the story," said Peechy 
Prauw. 

"And did Sam never find out what was buried by 
the red-caps.'"' said Wolfert eagerly, whose mind was 
haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons. 

"Not that I know of," said Peechy. "He had no 
time to spare from his work, and, to tell the truth, he 
did not like to run the risk of another race among the 
rocks. Besides, how should he recollect the spot where 
the grave had been digged.'' everything would look so 
different by daylight. And then, where was the use of 
looking for a dead body, when there was no chance of 
hanging the murderers.'"' 

"Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they 
buried.?" said Wolfert. 



Golden Dreams 255 

"To be sure," cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. 
"Does it not haunt in the neighborhood to this very 
day?" 

"Haunt!" exclaimed several of the party, opening 
their eyes still wider, and edging their chairs still closer. 

"Aye, haunt," repeated Peechy; "have none of you 
heard of Father Red-cap, who haunts the old burnt 
farmhouse in the woods, on the border of the Sound, 
near Hell Gate?" 

"Oh, to be sure, I've heard tell of something of the 
kind, but then I took it for some old wives' fable." 

"Old wives' fable or not," said Peechy Prauw, "that 
farmhouse stands hard by the very spot. It's been 
unoccupied time out of mind, and stands in a lonely 
part of the coast; but those who fish in the neighbor- 
hood have often heard strange noises there; and lights 
have been seen about the wood at night; and an old 
fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more 
than once, which people take to be the ghost of the body 
buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took 
shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged it 
from top to bottom, when they found old Father Red- 
cap astride of a cider barrel in the cellar, with a jug in 
one hand and a goblet in the other. He offered them 
a drink out of his goblet, but just as one of the soldiers 
was putting it to his mouth — whew! — a flash of fire 
blazed through the cellar, blinded every mother's son 
of them for several minutes, and when they recovered 
their eyesight, jug, goblet, and Red-cap had vanished, 
and nothing but the empty cider barrel remained." 

Here the half pay officer, who was growing very 



256 Stories of the Hudson 

muzzy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor with 
half extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an 
expiring rushlight. '; 

"That's all fudge!" said he, as Peechy finished his 
last story. 

"Well, I don't vouch for the truth of it myself," said 
Peechy Prauw, "though all the world knows that there's 
something strange about that house and grounds; but 
as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as 
if it had happened to myself." 

The deep interest taken in this conversation by the 
company had made them unconscious of the uproar 
abroad among the elements, when suddenly they were 
electrified by a tremendous clap of thunder. A lumber- 
ing crash followed instantaneously, shaking the building 
to its very foundation. All started from their seats, im- 
agining it the shock of an earthquake, or that old Father 
Red-cap was coming among them in all his terrors. 
They listened for a moment, but only heard the rain 
pelting against the windows, and the wind howling 
among the trees. The explosion was soon explained by 
the apparition of an old negro's bald head thrust in at 
the door, his white goggle eyes contrasting with his 
jetty poll, which was wet with rain, and shone like a 
bottle. In a jargon but half intelligible, he announced 
that the kitchen chimney had been struck with light- 
ning. 

A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and sank 
in gusts, produced a momentary stillness. In this in- 
terval the report of a musket was heard, and a long 
shout, almost like a yell, resounded from the shore. 



Golden Dreams 257 

Everyone crowded to the window; another musket- 
shot was heard, and another long shout, mingled wildly 
with a rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came 
up from the bosom of the waters; for though incessant 
flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore, no 
one was to be seen. 

Suddenly the window of the room overhead was 
opened, and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious 
stranger. Several bailings passed from one party to 
the other, but in a language which none of the company 
in the barroom could understand; and presently they 
heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead, as 
if all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the 
room. The negro servant was summoned, and shortly 
afterwards was seen assisting the veteran to lug the 
ponderous sea chest down stairs. 

The landlord was in amazement. ''What, you are 
not going on the water in such a storm .f"' 

"Storm!" said the other, scornfully, "do you call 
such a sputter of weather a storm.'"' 

"You'll get drenched to the skin — You'll catch 
your death!" said Peechy Prauw, affectionately. 

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the merman, 
"don't preach about weather to a man that has cruised 
in whirlwinds and tornadoes." 

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. 
The voice from the water was heard once more in a 
tone of impatience; the bystanders stared with re- 
doubled awe at this man of storms, who seemed to have 
come up out of the deep, and to be summoned back to 
it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly 



258 Stories of the Hudson 

bore his ponderous sea chest towards the shore, they 
eyed it with a superstitious feeHng; half doubting 
whether he were not really about to embark upon it 
and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed 
him at a distance with a lantern. 

"Dowse the light!" roared the hoarse voice from the 
water. "No one wants lights here!" 

"Thunder and lightning!" exclaimed the veteran, 
turning short upon them; "back to the house with 
you!" 

Wolfert and his companions shrank back in dismay. 
Still their curiosity would not allow them entirely to 
withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered 
across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with men, 
just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the 
heaving surges, and swashing the water at every heave. 
It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook, 
for the current rushed furiously round the point. The 
veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea chest on 
the gunwale of the boat, and seized the handle at the 
other end to lift it in, when the motion propelled the 
boat from the shore; the chest slipped off from the 
gunwale, and, sinking into the waves, pulled the veteran 
headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on 
shore, and a volley of execrations by those on board; 
but boat and man were hurried away by the rushing 
swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded; 
Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that he distinguished 
a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning man 
beckoning for assistance; but when the lightning again 
gleamed along the water, all was void; neither man 



Golden Dreams 259 

nor boat was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and 
weltering of the waves as they hurried past. 

The company returned to the tavern to await the 
subsiding of the storm. They resumed their seats, and 
gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transac- 
tion had not occupied five minutes, and not a dozen 
words had been spoken. When they looked at the 
oaken chair, they could scarcely realize the fact that 
the strange being who had so lately tenanted it, full of 
life and Herculean vigor, should already be a corpse. 
There was the very glass he had just drunk from; there 
lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked, as it 
were, with his last breath. As the worthy burghers 
pondered on these things, they felt a terrible convic- 
tion of the uncertainty of existence, and each felt as if 
the ground on which he stood was rendered less stable 
by this awful example. 

As, however, the most of the company were possessed 
of that valuable philosophy which enables a man to 
bear up with fortitude against the misfortunes of his 
neighbors, they soon managed to console themselves 
for the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was 
particularly happy that the poor dear man had paid 
his reckoning before he went; and made a kind of fare- 
well speech on the occasion. 

"He came," said he, "in a storm, and he went in a 
storm; he came in the night, and he went in the night; 
he came nobody knows whence, and he has gone no- 
body knows where. For aught I know he has gone to 
sea once more in his chest, and may land to bother 
some other people on the other side of the world! 



26o Stories of the Hudson 

Though It's a thousand pities," added he, "if he has 
gone to Davy Jones's locker, that he had not left his 
own locker behind him." 

"His locker! St. Nicholas preserve us!" cried Peechy 
Prauw. "I'd not have that sea chest in the house for 
any money; I'll warrant he'd come racketing after it 
at nights, and making a haunted house of the inn. And, 
as to his going to sea in his chest, I recollect what hap- 
pened to Skipper Onderdonk's ship on his voyage from 
Amsterdam. 

"The boatswain died during a storm. So they wrap- 
ped him up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea chest, 
and threw him overboard; but they neglected in their 
hurry-skurry to say prayers over him — and the storm 
raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the 
dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud for a sail, 
coming hard after the ship; and the sea breaking before 
him in great sprays like fire; and there they kept scud- 
ding day after day, and night after night, expecting 
every moment to go to wreck; and every night they 
saw the dead boatswain in his sea chest trying to get 
up with them, and they heard his whistle above the 
blasts of wind, and he seemed to send great seas moun- 
tain high after them, that would have swamped the 
ship if they had not put up the deadlights. And so it 
went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs off New- 
foundland, and supposed he had veered ship and stood 
for Dead Man's Isle. So much for burying a man at 
sea without saying prayeps over him." 

The thundergust which had hitherto detained the 
company was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the 



Golden Dreams 261 

hall tolled midnight; every one pressed to depart, for 
seldom was such a late hour of the night trespassed on 
hy these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth, they 
found the heavens once more serene. The storm which 
had lately obscured them had rolled away, and lay piled 
up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the 
bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a little 
silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds. 

The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal 
narrations they had made, had left a superstitious feel- 
ing in every mind. They cast a fearful glance at the 
spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, almost 
expecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool 
moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the 
waters, but all was placid, and the current dimpled 
over the spot where he had gone down. The party 
huddled together in a little crowd as they repaired 
homeward, particularly when they passed a lonely 
field where a man had been murdered, and even the 
sexton, who had to complete his journey alone, though 
accustomed, one would think, to ghosts and goblins, 
went a long way round, rather than pass by his own 
churchyard. 

Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock 
of stories and notions to ruminate upon. These ac- 
counts of pots of money and Spanish treasures, buried 
here and there and everywhere, about the rocks and 
bays of these wild shores, made him almost dizzy. 
"Blessed St. Nicholas!" ejaculated he half aloud, "is 
it not possible to come upon one of these golden hoards, 
and to make one's self rich in a twinkling.'' How hard 



262 Stories of the Hudson 

that I must go on, delving and delving, day in and day 
out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky 
stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my car- 
riage for the rest of my life?" 

As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been 
told of the singular adventure of the negro fisherman, 
his imagination gave a totally different complexion to 
the tale. He saw in the gang of red-caps nothing but 
a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupidity 
was once more awakened by the possibility of at length 
getting on the traces of some of this lurking wealth. 
Indeed, his infected fancy tinged everything with gold. 
He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when his 
eyes had been greased with the magic ointment of the 
dervish, that gave him to see all the treasures of the 
earth. Caskets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, and 
barrels of outlandish coins, seemed to court him from 
their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve them 
from their untimely graves. 

On making private inquiries about the grounds said 
to be haunted by Father Red-cap, he was more and 
more confirmed in his surmise. He learned that the 
place had several times been visited by experienced 
money-diggers, who had heard Black Sam's story, 
though none of them had met with success. On the 
contrary, they had always been dogged with ill-luck 
of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert con- 
cluded, of not going to work at the proper time, and 
with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt had 
been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole 
night, and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as 



Golden Dreams 263 

he threw one shovel full of earth out of the hole, two 
were thrown in by invisible hands. He succeeded so 
far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, when there 
was a terrible roaring, ramping, and raging of uncouth 
figures about the hole, and at length showers of blows, 
dealt by invisible cudgels, fairly belabored him off of 
the forbidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had 
declared on his death-bed, so that there could not be 
any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted many 
years of his life to money-digging, and it was thought 
would have ultimately succeeded, had he not died 
recently of a brain fever in the almshouse. 

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation 
and impatience, fearful lest some rival adventurer 
should get a scent of the buried gold. He determined 
privately to seek out the black fisherman, and get him 
to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed 
the mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily 
found, for he was one of those old habitual beings that 
live about a neighborhood until they wear themselves 
a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner, 
public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin 
about town that did not know Sam the fisherman, and 
think that he had a right to play his tricks upon the old 
negro. Sam had led an amphibious life for more than 
half a century, about the shores of the Bay, and the 
fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the greater 
part of his time on and in the water, particularly about 
Hell Gate, and might have been taken, in bad weather, 
for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. 
There would he be seen, at all times, and in all weathers, 



264 Stories of the Hudson 

sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, or 
prowHng Hke a shark about some wreck, where the fish 
are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated 
on a rock from hour to hour, looking in the mist and 
drizzle like a solitary heron, watching for its prey. He 
was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the 
Sound, from the Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell 
Gate even unto the Devil's Stepping-stones, and it was 
even affirmed that he knew all the fish in the river by 
their Christian names. 

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much 
larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely con- 
structed of fragments of wrecks and driftwood, and 
built on the rocky shore at the foot of the old fort, just 
about what at present forms the point of the Battery. 
A "most ancient and fish-like smell" pervaded the 
place. Oars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning 
against the wall of the fort; a net was spread on the 
sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the beach, and 
at the door of his cabin was Mud Sam himself, indulg- 
ing in the true negro luxury of sleeping in the sunshine. 

Many years had passed away since the time of Sam's 
youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter 
had grizzled the knotty wool upon his head. He per- 
fectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he 
had often been called upon to relate them, though in 
his version of the story he differed in many points from 
Peechy Prauw, as is not unfrequently the case with 
authentic historians. As to the subsequent researches 
of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them; 
they were matters quite out of his line; neither did the 



Golden Dreams 265 

cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on that 
point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as 
a pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The 
long time that had intervened since his nocturnal ad- 
venture had effaced all Sam's awe of the place, and the 
promise of a trifling reward roused him at once from 
his sleep and his sunshine./ 

The tide was adverse to making the expedition by 
water, and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land 
of promise, to wait for its turning; they set off, there- 
fore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought 
them to the edge of a wood, which, at that time, covered 
the greater part of the eastern side of the island. It 
was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloomen-dael. 
Here they struck into a long lane, straggling among 
trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds 
and mullein-stalks, as if but seldom used, and so com- 
pletely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twi- 
light. Wild vines entangled the trees, and flaunted in 
their faces; brambles and briers caught their clothes 
as they passed; the garter snake glided across their 
path; the spotted toad hopped and waddled before 
them, and the restless catbird mewed at them from 
every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read 
in romantic legend, he might have fancied himself en- 
tering upon forbidden, enchanted ground, or that these 
were some of the guardians set to keep watch upon 
buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place, 
and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect 
upon his mind. 

On reaching the lower end of the lane, they found 



266 Stories of the Hudson 

themselves near the shore of the Sound in a kind of 
amphitheatre, surrounded by forest trees. The area 
had once been a grassplot, but was now shagged with 
briers and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the 
river bank, was a ruined building, little better than 
a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys, rising like 
a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of the 
Sound rushed along just below it, with wildly-grown 
trees drooping their branches into its waves. 

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted 
house of Father Red-cap, and called to mind the story 
of Peechy Prauw. The evening was approaching, and 
the light falling dubiously among these woody places, 
gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to 
foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The 
nighthawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of 
the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. The wood- 
pecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow 
tree, and the firebird* streamed by them with his deep- 
red plumage. 

They now came to an inclosure that had once been 
a garden. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, 
but was little better than a wilderness of weeds, with 
here and there a matted rosebush, or a peach or plum 
tree grown wild and ragged, and covered with moss. 
At the lower end of the garden they passed a kind of 
vault in the side of a bank, facing the water. It had 
the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, 
was still strong, and appeared to have been recently 
patched up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a harsh 

*Orchard Oriole. 



Golden Dreams 267 

grating upon its hinges, and striking against something 
like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and a skull rolled 
on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was 
reassured on being informed by the negro that this was 
a family vault, belonging to one of the old Dutch fam- 
ilies that owned this estate; an assertion corroborated 
by the sight of coffins of various sizes piled within. 
Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when a 
boy, and now knew that he could not be far from the 
place of which they were in quest. 

They now made their way to the water's edge, scram- 
bling along ledges of rocks that overhung the waves, 
and obliged often to hold by shrubs and grapevines to 
avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At 
length they came to a small cove, or rather indent of 
the shore. It was protected by steep rocks, and over- 
shadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as 
to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach 
shelved gradually within the cove, but the current 
swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting points. 
The negro paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and 
scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded 
this nook; then suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped 
exultingly forward, and pointed to a large iron ring, 
stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelf of 
stone furnished a commodious landing place. It was 
the very spot where the red-caps had landed. Years 
had changed the more perishable features of the scene; 
but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence of time. 
On looking more closely, Wolfert remarked three crosses 
cut in the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt 



268 Stories of the Hudson 

some mysterious signification. Old Sam now readily- 
recognized the overhanging rock under which his skiff 
had been sheltered during the thundergust. To follow 
up the course which the midnight gang had taken, 
however, was a harder task. His mind had been so 
much taken up on that eventful occasion by the per- 
sons of the drama, as to pay but little attention to the 
scenes; and these places look so different by night and 
day. After wandering about for some time, however, 
they came to an opening among the trees which Sam 
thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of 
rock of moderate height like a wall on one side, which 
he thought might be the very ridge whence he had over- 
looked the diggers. Wolfert examined it narrowly, and 
at length discovered three crosses similar to those above 
the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of the rock, but 
nearly obliterated by moss that had grown over them. 
His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not they were 
the private marks of the buccaneers. All now that 
remained was to ascertain the precise spot where the 
treasure lay buried; for otherwise he might dig at 
random in the neighborhood of the crosses, without 
coming upon the spoils, and he had already had enough 
of such profitless labor. Here, however, the old negro 
was perfectly at a loss, and indeed perplexed him by a 
variety of opinions; for his recollections were all con- 
fused. Sometimes he declared it must have been at the 
foot of a mulberry tree hard by; then beside a great 
white stone; then under a small green knoll, a short 
distance from the ledge of rocks; until at length Wol- 
fert became as bewildered as himself. 



Golden Dreams 269 

The shadows of evening were now spreading them- 
selves over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle 
together. It was evidently too late to attempt anything 
further at present; and, indeed, Wolfert had come 
unprovided with implements to prosecute his researches. 
Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained the place, 
he took note of all its landmarks, that he might recog- 
nise it again, and set out on his return homewards, 
resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise without 
delay. 

The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed 
every feeling, being now in some measure appeased, 
fancy began to wander, and to conjure up a thousand 
shapes and chimeras as he returned through this 
haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to 
swing from every tree, and he almost expected to see 
some Spanish don, with his throat cut from ear to ear, 
rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost 
of a moneybag. 

Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and 
Wolfert's nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that 
the flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling 
of a nut, was enough to startle him. As they entered 
the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a figure 
at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks, and 
bending under the weight of a burden. They paused 
and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared 
to be a woolen cap, and still more alarming, of a most 
sanguinary red. 

The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and 
stopped at the very door of the sepulchral vault. Just 



270 Stories of the Hudson 

before entering it he looked around. What was the 
affright of Wolfert, when he recognised the grizzly 
visage of the drowned buccaneer! He uttered an ejacu- 
lation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist, 
and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not 
pause to see any more, but hurried off as fast as his legs 
could carry him, nor was Sam slow in following at his 
heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. Away, 
then, did they scramble through bush and brake, 
horribly frightened at every bramble that tugged at 
their skirts, nor did they pause to breathe, until they 
had blundered their way through this perilous wood, 
and fairly reached the high road to the city. 

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon 
courage enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much 
had he been dismayed by the apparition, whether living 
or dead, of the grizzly buccaneer. In the meantime, 
what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all 
his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his 
appetite, wandered in his thoughts and words, and 
committed a thousand blunders. His rest was broken; 
and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape of a 
huge moneybag, sat squatted upon his breast. He 
babbled about incalculable sums; fancied himself en- 
gaged in money-digging; threw the bedclothes right 
and left, in the idea that he was shovelling away the 
dirt; groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and 
lugged forth, as he supposed, an inestimable pot of 
gold. 

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at 
what they conceived a returning touch of insanity. 



Golden Dreams 271 

There are two family oracles, one or other of which 
Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt 
and perplexity — the dominie and the doctor. In the 
present instance they repaired to the doctor. There 
was at that time a little dark mouldy man of medicine, 
famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for his 
skill, not only in the healing art, but in all matters of 
strange and mysterious nature. His name was Dr. 
Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by 
the appellation of the High German Doctor.* To him 
did the poor women repair for counsel and assistance 
touching the mental vagaries of Wolfert Webber. 

They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad 
in his dark camlet robe of knowledge, with his black 
velvet cap, after the manner of Boorhaave, Van Hel- 
mont, and other medical sages; a pair of green specta- 
cles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose, and poring 
over a German folio that reflected back the darkness of 
his physiognomy. The doctor listened to their state- 
ment of the symptoms of Wolfert' s malady with pro- 
found attention; but when they came to mention his 
raving about buried money, the little man pricked up 
his ears. Alas, poor women! they little knew the aid 
they had called in. 

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in 
seeking the short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so 
many a long lifetime is wasted. He had passed some 
years of his youth among the Harz Mountains of Ger- 
many, and had derived much valuable instruction from 

*The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history 
of Dolph Heyliger. 



272 Stones of the Hudson 

the miners, touching the mode of seeking treasure buried 
in the earth. He had prosecuted his studies also under 
a travelKng sage who united the mysteries of medicine 
with magic and legerdemain. His mind therefore had 
become stored with all kinds of mystic lore; he had 
dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, divination; 
knew how to detect stolen money, and to tell where 
springs of water lay hidden; in a word, by the dark 
nature of his knowledge he had acquired the name of 
the High German Doctor, which is pretty nearly equiva- 
lent to that of necromancer. The doctor had often 
heard rumors of treasure being buried in various parts 
of the island, and had long been anxious to get on the 
traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert's waking and 
sleeping vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in 
them the confirmed symptoms of a case of money- 
digging, and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. 
Wolfert had long been sorely oppressed in mind by the 
golden secret, and as 'a family physician is a kind of 
father confessor, he was glad of any opportunity of 
unburdening himself. So, far from curing, the doctor 
caught the malady from his patient. The circumstances 
unfolded to him awakened all his cupidity; he had not 
a doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neigh- 
borhood of the mysterious crosses, and offered to join 
Wolfert in the search. He informed him that much 
secrecy and caution must be observed in enterprises of 
the kind; that money is only to be digged for at night; 
with certain forms and ceremonies; the burning of 
drugs; the repeating of mystic words; and above all, 
that the seekers must first be provided with a divining 



Golden Dreams 273 

rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing to 
the very spot on the surface of the earth under which 
treasure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much 
of his mind to these matters, he charged himself with 
all the necessary preparations, and, as the quarter of 
the moon was propitious, he undertook to have the 
divining rod ready by a certain night.* 

Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at having met with 
so learned. and able a coadjutor. Everything went on 
secretly, but swimmingly. The doctor had many con- 
sultations with his patient, and the good woman of the 
household lauded the comforting effects of his visits. 
In the meantime the wonderful divining rod, that great 
key to nature's secrets, was duly prepared. The doctor 
had thumbed over all his books of knowledge for the 
occasion; and the black fisherman was engaged to take 
them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise; to work 
with spade and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure; 
and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they 
were certain of finding. 

At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous 
undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he coun- 
selled his wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel no 

*The following note was found appended to this passage in the 
handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. "There has been much written 
against the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready 
to scoff at the mysteries of nature; but I fully join with Dr. Knip- 
perhausen in giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy 
in discovering the concealment of stolen goods, the boundary stones 
of fields, the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence 
of subterraneous springs and streams of water: albeit, I think these 
properties not to be readily discredited: but of its potency in dis- 
covering veins of precious metal, and hidden sums of money and 



274 Stories of the Hudson 

alarm if he should not return during the night. Like 
reasonable women, on being told not to feel alarm, they 
fell immediately into a panic. They saw at once by 
his manner that something unusual was in agitation; 
all their fears about the unsettled state of his mind were 
revived with tenfold force; they hung about him, en- 
treating him not to expose himself to the night air, but 
all in vain. When once Wolfert was mounted on his 
hobby, it was no easy matter to get him out of the sad- 
dle. It was a clear starlight night, when he issued out 
of the portal of the Webber palace. He wore a large 
flapped hat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of 
his daughter's, to secure him from the night damp, 
while Dame Webber threw her long red cloak about 
his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck. 

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and 
accoutred by his housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, 
and sallied forth in his camlet robe, by way of surcoat; 
his black velvet cap under his cocked hat, a thick 
clasped book under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried 
herbs in one hand, and in the other the miraculous rod 
of divination. 

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the 
doctor passed by the churchyard, and the watchman 



jewels, I have not the least doubt. Some said that the rod turned 
only in the hands of persons who had been born in particular months 
of the year; hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence 
when they would procure a talisman. Others declared that the 
properties of the rod were either an effect of chance, or the fraud of 
the holder, or the work of the devil. 

But I make not a doubt that the divining rod is one of those 
secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained by 



Golden Dreams 275 

bawled in hoarse voice a long and doleful "All's well!" 
A deep sleep had already fallen upon this primitive 
little burgh; nothing disturbed this awful silence, ex- 
cepting now and then the bark of some profligate night- 
walking dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. It 
is true, Wolfert fancied more than once that he heard 
the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distance behind 
them: but it might have been merely the echo of their 
own steps along the quiet streets. He thought also at 
one time that he saw a tall figure skulking after them 
— stopping when they stopped, and moving on as they 
proceeded ; but the dim and uncertain lamplight 
threw such vague gleams and shadows, that this might 
all have been mere fancy. 

They found the old fisherman waiting for them, 
smoking his pipe in the stern of his skiff, which w;as 
moored just in front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and 
spade were lying in the bottom of the boat, with a dark 
lantern, and a stone bottle of good Dutch courage, in 
which honest Sam no doubt put even more faith than 
Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs. 

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their 
cockleshell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, 
with a wisdom and valor equalled only by the three 

the sympathies existing between physical things operated upon by 
the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the in- 
dividual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper 
time of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessary 
ceremonies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can con- 
fidently recommend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means 
of discovering the various places on the Island of Manhattoes where 

treasure hath been buried in the olden time. , 

D. is.. 



276 Stories of the Hudson 

wise men of Gotham, who adventured to sea in a bowl. 
The tide was rising and running rapidly up the Sound. 
The current bore them along, almost without the aid 
of an oar. The profile of the town lay all in shadow. 
Here and there a light feebly glimmered from some sick 
chamber, or from a cabin window of some vessel at 
anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the deep 
starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the 
surface of the placid river; and a shooting meteor, 
streaking Its pale course In the very direction they were 
taking, was interpreted by the doctor into a most pro- 
pitious omen. 

In a little while they glided by the point of Corlaer's 
Hook with the rural inn which had been the scene of 
such night adventures. The family had retired to rest, 
and the house was dark and still. Wolfert felt a chill 
pass over him as they passed the point where the buc- 
caneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr. 
Knipperhausen. While regarding it, they thought they 
saw a boat actually lurking at the very place; but the 
shore cast such a shadow over the border of the water 
that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had 
not proceeded far when they heard the low sounds of 
distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his 
oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies 
and currents of the stream, soon left their followers, 
if such they were, far astern. In a little while they 
stretched across Turtle Bay and Kip's Bay, then 
shrouded themselves In the deep shadows of the Man- 
hattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from 
observation. At length the negro shot his skiff into a 



Golden Dreams 277 

little cove, darkly embowered by trees, and made it 
fast to the well-known iron ring. They now landed, 
and lighting the lantern, gathered their various imple- 
ments and proceeded slowly through the bushes. Every 
sound startled them, even that of their own footsteps 
among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech 
owl, from the shattered chimney of the neighboring ruin, 
made their blood run cold. 

In spite of all Wolfert's caution in taking note of the 
landmarks, it was some time before they could find 
the open place among the trees, where the treasure 
was supposed to be buried. At length they came 
to the ledge of rock; and on examining its surface 
by the aid of the lantern, Wolfert recognized the 
three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the 
momentous trial was at hand that was to determine 
their hopes. 

The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, while 
the doctor produced the divining rod. It was a forked 
twig, one end of which was grasped firmly in each hand, 
while the centre, forming the stem, pointed perpendicu- 
larly upwards. The doctor moved this wand about, 
within a certain distance of the earth, from place to 
place, but for some time without any effect, while 
Wolfert kept the light of the lantern turned full upon 
it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. 
At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor 
grasped it with greater earnestness, his hands trembling 
with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued 
to turn gradually, until at length the stem had reversed 
its position, and pointed perpendicularly downwards, 



278 Stones of the Hudson 

and remained pointing to one spot as fixedly as the 
needle to the pole. 

"This is the spot!" said the doctor, in an almost 
inaudible tone. 

Wolfert's heart was in his throat. 

"Shall I dig.^" said the negro, grasping the spade. 

^^ Pots tausends, no!" replied the little doctor, hastily. 
He now ordered his companions to keep close by him, 
and to maintain the most inflexible silence; cer- 
tain precautions must be taken and ceremonies used to 
prevent the evil spirits which kept about buried treas- 
ure from doing them any harm. He then drew a circle 
about the place, enough to include the whole party. 
He next gathered dry twigs and leaves and made a fire, 
upon which he threw certain drugs and dried herbs 
which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke 
rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring marvellously of 
brimstone and asafoetida, which, however grateful it 
might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly 
strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of coughing 
and wheezing that made the whole grove resound. 
Doctor Knipperhausen then unclasped the volume 
which he ^had brought under his arm, which was 
printed in red and black characters in German text. 
While Wolfert held the lantern, the doctor, by the 
aid of his spectacles, read off several forms of con- 
juration in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam 
to seize the pickaxe and proceed to work. The close- 
bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been 
disturbed for many a year. After having picked his 
way through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand 



Golden Dreams 279 

and gravel, which he threw briskly to right and left 
with the spade. 

"Hark!" said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a tramp- 
ling among the dry leaves, and rustling through the 
bushes. Sam paused for a moment, and they listened. 
No footstep was near. The bat flitted by them in 
silence; a bird, roused from its roost by the light which 
glared up among the trees, flew circling about the flame. 
In the profound stillness of the woodland, they could 
distinguish the current rippling along the rocky shore, 
and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate. 

The negro continued his labors, and had already 
digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the 
edge, reading formulae every now and then from his 
black-letter volume, or throwing more drugs and herbs 
upon the fire; while Wolfert bent anxiously over the 
pit, watching every stroke of the spade. Anyone wit- 
nessing the scene thus lighted up by fire, lantern, and 
the reflection of Wolfert's red mantle, might have mis- 
taken the little doctor for some foul magician busied in 
his incantations, and the grizzly-headed negro for some 
swart goblin, obedient to his commands. 

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon 
something that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated 
to Wolfert's heart. He struck his spade again. 

"'Tis a chest," said Sam. 

"Full of gold, I'll warrant it!" cried Wolfert, clasp- 
ing his hands with rapture. 

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from 
above caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by 
the expiring light of the fire he beheld, just over the 



28o Stories of the Hudson 

disk of the rock, what appeared to be the grim visage of 
the drowned buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon 
him. 

Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. His 
panic communicated itself to his companions. The 
negro leaped out of the hole; the doctor dropped his 
book and basket, and began to pray in German. All 
was horror and confusion. The fire was scattered about, 
the lantern extinguished. In their hurry-scurry they 
ran against and confounded one another. They fancied 
a legion of hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that 
they saw, by the fitful gleams of the scattered embers, 
strange figures, in red caps, gibbering and ramping 
around them. The doctor ran one way, the negro an- 
other, and Wolfert made for the waterside. As he 
plunged struggling onwards through brush and brake, 
he heard the tread of some one in pursuit. He scram- 
bled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon 
him. He felt himself grasped by his cloak, when sud- 
denly his pursuer was attacked in turn: a fierce fight 
and struggle ensued — a pistol was discharged that lit 
up rock and bush for a second, and showed two figures 
grappling together — all was then darker than ever. 
The contest continued — the combatants clinched each 
other, and panted, and groaned, and rolled among the 
rocks. There was snarling and growling as of a cur, 
mingled with curses, in which Wolfert fancied he could 
recognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain 
have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice, and 
could go no farther. 

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was 



Golden Dreams 281 

a tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could de- 
cide the combat, until one was precipitated from the 
brow of the cliff, and sent headlong into the deep stream 
that whirled below. Wolfert heard the plunge, and a 
kind of strangling, bubbling murmur, but the darkness 
of the night hid everything from him, and the swiftness 
of the current swept everything instantly out of hear- 
ing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but 
whether friend or foe, Wolfert could not tell, nor 
whether they might not both be foes. He heard the 
survivor approach, and his terror revived. He saw, 
where the profile of the rocks rose against the horizon, 
a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken; 
it must be the buccaneer. Whither should he fly! — a 
precipice was on one side — a murderer on the other. 
The enemy approached — he was close at hand. Wolfert 
attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff. His 
cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was 
jerked from off his feet, and held dangling in the air, 
half choked by the string with which his careful wife 
had fastened the garment round his neck. Wolfert 
thought his last moment was arrived; already had he 
committed his soul to St. Nicholas, when the string 
broke, and he tumbled down the bank, bumping from 
rock to rock, and bush to bush, and leaving the red 
cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air. 

It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. 
When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning 
were already shooting up the sky. He found himself 
grievously battered, and lying in the bottom of a boat. 
He attempted to sit up, but was too sore and stiff to 



282 Stories of the Hudson 

move. A voice requested him in friendly accents to He 
still. He turned his eyes towards the speaker; it was 
Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party, at the earnest 
request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with 
the laudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the 
secret consultations of Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk 
had been completely distanced in following the light 
skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in time to 
rescue the poor money-digger from his pursuer. 

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and 
Black Sam severally found their way back to the Man- 
hattoes, each having some dreadful tale of peril to relate. 
As to poor Wolfert, instead of returnng in triumph laden 
with bags of gold, he was borne home on a shutter, fol- 
lowed by a rabble rout of curious urchins. His wife and 
daughter saw the dismal pageant from a distance, and 
alarmed the neighborhood with their cries; they 
thought the poor man had suddenly settled the great 
debt of nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding 
him, however, still living, they had him speedily to bed, 
and a jury of old matrons of the neighborhood assem- 
bled, to determine how he should be doctored. The 
whole town was in a buzz with the story of the money- 
diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous 
night's adventures; but though they found the very 
place of the digging, they discovered nothing that com- 
pensated them for their trouble. Some say they found 
the fragments of an oaken chest, and an iron pot-lid, 
which savored strongly of hidden money, and that in 
the old family vault there were traces of bales and boxes, 
but this is all very dubious. 



Golden Dreams 283 

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this 
day been discovered; whether any treasure were ever 
actually buried at that place; whether, if so, it were 
carried off at night by those who had buried it; or 
whether it still remains there under the guardianship 
of gnomes and spirits, until it shall be properly sought 
for, is all matter of conjecture. For my part, I incline 
to the latter opinion, and make no doubt that great 
sums lie buried, both there and in other parts of this 
island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the 
buccaneers and the Dutch colonists, and I would earn- 
estly recommend the search after them to such of my 
fellow citizens as are not engaged in any other specu- 
lations. 

There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who 
and what was the strange man of the seas who had 
domineered over the little fraternity at Corlaer's Hook 
for a time, disappeared so strangely, and reappeared so 
fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler stationed at 
that place to assist his comrades in landing their goods 
among the rocky coves of the island. Others that he 
was one of the ancient comrades of Kidd or Bradish, 
returned to convey away treasures formerly hidden in 
the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws any- 
thing like a vague light on this mysterious matter, is a 
report which prevailed of a strange, foreign-built shal- 
lop, with much the look of a picaroon, having been seen 
hovering about the Sound for several days, without 
landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen 
going to and from her at night, and that she was seen 
standing out of the mouth of the harbor in the 



284 Stories of the Hudson 

grey of the dawn after the catastrophe of the money- 
diggers. 

I must not omit to mention another report, also, 
which I confess is rather apocryphal, of the buccaneer, 
who was supposed to have been drowned, being seen 
before daybreak, with a lantern in his hand, seated 
astride of his great sea chest, and sailing through Hell 
Gate, which just then began to roar and bellow with 
redoubled fury. 

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk 
and rumor, poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his 
bed, bruised in body, and sorely beaten down in mind. 
His wife and daughter did all they could to bind up his 
wounds, both corporal and spiritual. The good old 
dame never stirred from his bedside, where she sat 
knitting from morning till night, while his daughter 
busied herself about him with the fondest care. Nor 
did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may 
be said of the desertion of friends in distress, they had 
no complaint of the kind to make. Not an old wife of 
the neighborhood but abandoned her work to crowd to 
the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after his 
health, and the particulars of his story. Not one came 
moreover, without her little pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, 
balm, or other herb tea, delighted at an opportunity of 
signalizing her kindness and her doctorship. What 
drenchings did not poor Wolfert undergo, and all in 
vain! It was a moving sight to behold him wasting 
away day by day, growing thinner and thinner, and 
ghastlier and ghastlier, and staring with rueful visage 
from under an old patchwork counterpane, upon the 



Golden Dreams 285 

jury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh, and groan, 
and look unhappy around him. . 

Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed 
a ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. He came 
in with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to 
reanimate the expiring heart of the poor money-digger, 
but it was all in vain. Wolfert was completely done 
over. If anything was wanting to complete his despair, 
it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his dis- 
tress, that the corporation were about to run a new 
street through the very centre of his cabbage garden. 
He now saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin; 
his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers, was to be 
laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor 
wife and child .^ 

His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful 
Amy out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was 
seated beside him; Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed 
after his daughter, and, for the first time since his ill- 
ness, broke the silence he had maintained. 

, "I am going!" said he, shaking his head feebly, "and 
when I am gone — my poor daughter " 

"Leave her to me, father!" said Dirk, manfully — 
"I'll take care of her!" 

Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping 
youngster, and saw there was none better able to take 
care of a woman. 

"Enough," said he — "she is yours! — and now fetch 
me a lawyer — let me make my will and die." 

The lawyer was brought — a dapper, bustling, round- 
headed little man. Roorback (or Rollebuck as it was 



286 Stories of the Hudson 

pronounced) by name. At the sight of him the women 
broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the 
signing of a will as the signing of a death warrant. 
Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be silent. 
Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the bed- 
curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide 
her distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pel- 
lucid tear, which trickled silently down, and hung at 
the end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only 
unconcerned member of the family, played with the 
good dame's ball of worsted, as it rolled about the 
floor, 

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his 
forehead; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture 
of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt 
his end approaching, and that he had no time to lose. 
The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and 
prepared to write. 

"I give and bequeath," said Wolfert, faintly, "my 
small farm " 

"What — all!" exclaimed the lawyer. 

Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the 
lawyer. 

"Yes— all," said he. 

"What! all that great patch of land with cabbages 
and sunflowers, which the corporation is just going to 
run a main street through?" 

"The same," said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh, and 
sinking back upon his pillow. 

"I wish him joy that inherits it!" said the little 
lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily. 



Golden Dreams 287 

*'What do you mean?" said Wolfert, again opening 
his eyes. 

"That he'll be one of the richest men in the place!" 
cried little Rollebuck. 

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the 
threshold of existence; his eyes again lighted up; he 
raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red worsted 
nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer. 

"You don't say so!" exclaimed he. 

"Faith, but I do!" rejoined the other. "Why, when 
that great field and that huge meadow come to be laid 
out in streets, and cut up into snug building lots — why, 
whoever owns it need not pull off his hat to the 
patroon!" 

"Say you so?" cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg 
out of bed, "why, then I think I'll not make my will 
yet!" 

To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually 
recovered. The vital spark, which had glimmered 
faintly in the socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of 
gladness which the little lawyer poured into his soul. 
It once more burnt up into a flame. 

Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the 
body of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert 
left his room; in a few days more his table was covered 
with deeds, plans of streets, and building lots. Little 
Rollebuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man 
and adviser; and instead of making his will, assisted in 
the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In fact 
Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burgh- 
ers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, 



288 Stories of the Hudson 

in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tena- 
ciously held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips 
and cabbages about the skirts of the city, hardly able 
to make both ends meet, until the corporation has 
cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they 
have suddenly awakened out of their lethargy, and, to 
their astonishment, found themselves rich men. 

Before many months had elapsed, a great bustling 
street passed through the very centre of the Webber 
garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a 
treasure. His golden dream was accomplished; he did 
indeed find an unlooked-for source of wealth; for, when 
his paternal lands were distributed into building lots, 
and rented out to safe tenants, instead of producing a 
paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an abundant 
crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter-day, it was 
a goodly sight to see his tenants knocking at his door, 
from morning till night, each with a little round-bellied 
bag of money, a golden produce of the soil. 

The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept 
up; but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch 
house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of 
a street, the grand house of the neighborhood; for 
Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each side, and a 
cupola or tea-room on top, where he might climb up 
and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in the course 
of time the whole mansion was overrun by the chubby- 
faced progency of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron. 

As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and corpulent, he 
also set up a great gingerbread-colored carriage, drawn 
by a pair of black Flanders mares, with tails that swept 



Golden Dreams 289 

the ground; and to commemorate the origin of his 
greatness, he had for his crest, a full-blown cabbage 
painted on the panels, with the pithy motto aUes Eopf, 
that is to say, all head; meaning thereby that he had 
risen by sheer headwork. 

To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fulness of 
time the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his 
fathers, and Wolfert Webber succeeded to the leather- 
bottomed armchair, in the inn parlor at Corlaer's 
Hook; where he long reigned greatly honored and 
respected, insomuch that he was never known to tell a 
story without its being believed, nor to utter a joke 
without its being laughed at. 



JUN 26 »gi2 





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